


When the Cat's Away

by VelkynKarma



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Gen, Injury, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Season 2 compliant, Space Mice in action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-08 19:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: Fresh after the Olkari liberation, the Voltron Alliance is contacted for assistance in rescuing valuable young hostages from their Galra occupiers. Voltron accepts the challenge, but when the prison break proves to be more complicated than anticipated, they need to change up their tactics...and rely on a few unexpected, and extremely tiny, allies.Keith is all for defeating the Galra and rescuing the hostages, but he's not entirely certain how to feel about his newest paladin partner being a mouse, and not a Lion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm not done yet! This here's my entry for the Voltron General Big Bang! 
> 
> I was partnered with the awesome Eastofthemoon for all the artwork you'll be seeing in this fic. Credit to her for all the pretty (and adorable) imagery. Check out her art, writing and more at her tumblr!  
> http://eastofthemoon.tumblr.com/
> 
> I'll be posting a chapter a day until this is completed, so hang tight and let's get started :)

“There's just no way this can be done,” Pidge complains, scowling at the holographic displays.   
  
Shiro sighs. There’s a trace of frustration in his voice, mostly restrained but on the edge, as he says, “Let’s go over the details again.”  
  
“We’ve been over them a hundred times now,” Lance says, slumping in the blue paladin’s chair. “One more time isn’t gonna make any difference!”  
  
“There’s got to be a way to do this,” Shiro counters sternly. “We just have to be missing something. This is too valuable a mission to give up on before we even get started. The Dassians have pledged to support the Voltron Alliance, and they have a lot of military support to offer—but _only_ if we can succeed at this goal first. We can’t afford to lose a potential ally.”   
  
Everyone stares at the holographic screens, looking dejected, frustrated, or just plain tired. They’re spread out around the bridge, sitting in the paladin chairs or standing around the center screens. Everyone is on hand for such a major task—even the mice cling to Allura’s uniform and watch the proceedings and the paladins intently. The feelings of inadequacy and failure are almost palpable, even to Keith, and it makes him uncomfortable. He frowns a little as he settles back into his own paladin chair, studying his holographic displays.   
  
He can’t really blame any of them for being frustrated by this mission. Keith definitely is, too. It had seemed so simple on the surface. The Dassians had found their planet occupied by the Galra, targeted for their advanced military technology and skilled armies. They were a proud warrior race and wouldn’t have given in so easily, but the Galra were never ones to play fair. Not unlike the situation with the Olkari, the Galra commander had taken hostages to ensure Dassian compliance.   
  
Unlike the Olkari, the hostages had been children. The king and queen’s children, specifically.   
  
The Dassians were proud warriors, but they were also intensely loyal to their family and to their royalty. With the very young princes and princesses taken captive, the Dassians had been effectively hamstrung. They had the military prowess to give the Galra a serious fight if the playing field was even, but with their young ones’ lives at stake they would not put them at risk, and found themselves helpless.   
  
Helpless, but furious. The moment they had heard even the barest whispers of Voltron’s return, they had reached out to the Castle of Lions to offer a trade. _Save our children_ , the missive read, _bring them back to us alive, and we will put the full military might of the Dassian kingdom behind Voltron now and forevermore._   
  
Team Voltron was fresh from the liberation of the Olkari and already had one successful hostage rescue under their belts—even if it was resolved a little… _atypically_. They had jumped at the chance to do some more good and gain another ally in the fight against Zarkon. Unfortunately, they were now realizing just how daunting a task the mission really was.   
  
“Run through it again, Coran,” Shiro says. His voice is tired, but his eyes are determined. “From the beginning.”   
  
Coran nods, prodding the center holographic display, which shifts to show an image of a massive building. The image appears to have been taken from far away, but even so, the building is still enormous. “The target,” Coran says. “A highly secure prison facility. Unfortunately this is about the closest image we can get, obtained by the Green Lion during cloaked reconnaissance.” He nods to Pidge, who grumbles under her breath.   
  
“We can’t get too much information about this facility,” Coran continues. “Most of what we do know was provided by Dassian intelligence. We do know it’s quite secure, and deliberately designed to stifle any Dassian attempts to release their royal family.”   
  
He taps the holographic screen, and an incomplete set of blueprints rotates into view, displaying a cross-shaped schema with four different external wings and a massive dome at the center. “The Dassians believe the children themselves are held here, in the middle. However, we also know it has an extremely complicated series of key triggers that _must_ be issued from five separate locations throughout the facility. And those keys must be activated simultaneously in order to actually open the prison rooms. Activating them at the wrong time, or only a few at a time, or in any way that is out of sync, will put the prison rooms on lockdown and activate the alarms.”  
  
“So the blasting approach is out,” Hunk says, frowning. “Which is, well, our usual approach. But if we bull rush this or try to force entry, the place will be put on lockdown. Those kids might even be put in danger.”   
  
“Frontal attack is out,” Shiro agrees. “Stealth will be our only option for this mission, at least until we free the children and escort them safely out. The question is what our approach will be.”  
  
“Normally it would be simple to split up the group and assign each person a key station,” Allura says, studying the displays intently. Her dislike of the Galra is no secret, and it makes Keith’s stomach twist a little uncomfortably to see that fury on Allura’s face.   
  
But no one can really blame her for her intensity on this one. They’re all furious, really. It takes the lowest of the low to capture _kids_ and use them as hostages against their own parents to enforce compliance. Keith’s really looking forward to smashing a few of them into submission himself.   
  
One of the mice on her shoulders—the tiny blue one—nuzzles against her neck reassuringly, and Allura’s intensity seems to pull back a little. It doesn’t disappear completely, but she controls it better, for the mission. Sometimes, Keith thinks the mission is everything to her. Sometimes he can relate to that. She sighs. “With the communication links in the paladin armor, simultaneous activation at each of the five stations would be simple. Except…”  
  
“Except they’ve got that stupid jamming signal going,” Pidge grumbles. “No working communications. Once anybody goes within range of that facility, they’re on their own. We won’t be able to communicate with each other, which means we also can’t coordinate when to activate the unlock switches.”  
  
“So we need to get in without being caught, or we risk triggering a lockdown and putting these kids at risk. Then we need to find a way to simultaneously trigger these five keys to release them,” Shiro summarizes. “Ideas on how we can hit these keys all at the same time?”  
  
“What if we just synchronize our time and have everyone agree to hit their switches at an exact tick?” Pidge offers.   
  
“Can’t guarantee we’ll all actually be in position at the designated time,” Keith points out, frowning. “If somebody gets held up and can’t make it immediately, everyone else is still going to hit their triggers. It’ll be uneven. Lockdown.”  
  
“Can’t we all just go for one console and have Pidge hack it?” Lance offers. “Fake the other four triggering, escort the kids out, team Voltron gets another win?”  
  
But Pidge shakes her head. “Not that easy,” he says, poking one of Coran’s holographic screens. “Based on the data we got from the Dassians, these things are one way closed systems. Each station can send a signal to the main prison cell, but they can’t access each other for security reasons. I could hack into one of the stations, but that won’t help with the other four. And if I’m already there, why bother hacking it if I can just trigger the key switch?”  
  
“Aren’t we attacking the wrong thing, though?” Keith asks. He feels on edge, like they’re wasting time talking about all this when they could just _go._ He understands the need for it—if they _don’t_ get this plan right, those kids are going to be in trouble. It doesn’t make him want to hit the Galra that did this any less, though.   
  
“What do you mean?” Shiro asks.   
  
“I mean the problem here is the communication jamming thing, right?” Keith says. “What if we take that down first? Destroy that or hack it or whatever, and we’ll be able to get communications going again. Then we can split up and each take a switch.”  
  
It’s Hunk that shakes his head this time, though. “Too obvious,” he says. “We could probably bring the communication jamming hub down easy if we could locate it, but then they’ll know we’re there. And if we know we’re there before we can get to the princes and princesses, they’ll initiate a lockdown. We lose that stealth advantage.”   
  
Keith grits his teeth, but nods as he acknowledges Hunk’s point. No matter how much he’d like to just fight the Galra head on, Hunk is right; they simply can’t afford it right now.   
  
Allura looks just as frustrated. “There must be _something_ we can do,” she says, as she reaches out to flick through the holographic screens of information. The mice readjust easily on her shoulders and move naturally with the movements, seemingly unbothered by it. “How do the Galra activate it? Surely this can’t affect their own transmissions. Perhaps we can steal some of their communicators and adjust the frequency?”  
  
“Already thought about it,” Pidge says grumpily, “but it’s all tagged. They’d know something was stolen, and considering they’ve got a communication jamming hub in effect, they’ll _definitely_ know why. This mission’ll get shut down before we even get started.”  
  
“It looks like the ones who actually control the switches are the druids,” Coran adds, sounding a little disgusted. He brings up another holographic screen. “The four outer switches are exactly aligned with the four cardinal directions, and the prison and fifth key are at the center point. It’s possible it was deliberately set up this way for magical forms of communication. If the druids can use a spell to communicate when to trigger the switches, or if they’re attuned to quintessence leylines, this could be the way they get around the technological interference.”  
  
“The Dassians are skilled technicians and warriors, and have very advanced war machines, but they are do not have much magical acuity,” Allura admits, frowning. “This certainly would hamper their efforts to free their children…”   
  
“What about us?” Shiro prompts. “The Lions and the Castle blend magic and machine, right? Is there some magical alternative we can use to assist us with communications?”  
  
Coran looks a little exasperated when he answers. “Magic is _hardly_ as simple as picking up a communication device and getting it to work,” he says, with a trace of lecturing voice in his tone. “Even Alteans are limited magically; only the sacred lines are capable of using extremely complicated forms of magic. The paladins of old certainly were practiced in some forms of magic through their Lions, especially in relation to their elemental affinities, but they had years of training. I can only assume you humans would be _able_ to do it, or I doubt you’d all have bonded with your Lions as easily as you did, but we can hardly train you in advanced warfare and stealth spells in less than a day! Why, the basics of magic alone could take months to master—“  
  
“I think we can skip the lecture on spellcasting basics, Coran,” Allura interrupts. Keith is glad for it. Coran’s great, but he can talk a person to death when he gets into a topic, and it always gets worse when he starts lecturing the primitive humans on their simple ways of viewing things. They don’t have time for that, not when there’s scared kids desperate to get back to their parents, and Galra to teach a lesson or twenty to.   
  
One of the mice on Allura’s shoulders, the reddish-pink one, twitches its tail and makes a few jabbing gestures with its tiny paws. Allura doesn’t even look at it, and probably couldn’t see it well from her angle anyway, but she snorts in response. “Yes, perhaps it _would_ be a good idea to table that lesson for later. Magic lessons may prove just as useful as advanced combat. But that doesn’t solve our problem _now._ ”  
  
“Who are you even _talking_ t—right. Mice,” Lance interrupts himself. “Man, that _still_ confuses me. It’s like hearing one half of a phone conversation.”  
  
“It’s not that weird for people to talk to their pets,” Hunk says, looking a little bemused.  
  
“Yeah, but they don’t usually talk _back_ ,” Lance counters. The green mouse runs down Allura’s arm and makes a few indignant motions in Lance’s direction, chattering angrily, and Lance grimaces. “Oh come on. I didn’t mean anything by it. _Relax_.”   
  
“You can’t blame Plachu,” Pidge says absently, still staring at the holographic output of the mission. “I’d be insulted too. Altean mice are way smarter than Earth ones. They understand everything that’s going on, you know.”   
  
“Nor are they pets,” Allura adds, with a little fondness to her tone, as she calmly adjusts her arm for the green mouse—Plachu, Pidge had called it—to better balance. “They are friends and allies.”  
  
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Lance says. “I’ll make it up to you guys later, you can have some of my breakfast or something when the mission’s over.” The mice squeak in response, the yellow one loudest of all. Plachu crawls back up Allura’s arm and settles next to the red mouse, apparently satisfied.  
  
“Alright,” Shiro says. “Enough getting sidetracked, we still need to figure out a solution.”  
  
Keith is in private agreement. The mice are okay, but chatting about pets or whatever is just wasting time, and leaving him edgy and anxious. He wants to _do_ something, not sit here.  
  
“You’re right,” Allura agrees, expressing setting in determination again. The mice shift on her shoulders, and the blue one pats her neck for a moment. She cocks her head as if listening, and then adds, “They all apologize too. They won’t interrupt again. Now, were there any ideas?”  
  
“If magic’s not an option, then we need something else,” Shiro says, frowning at the holographic screens. “We need some way to think outside the box. Something that’s not magic or machine. Something not even the Galra can predict.”  
  
Keith agrees, but what else is there? It seems like magic and technology _are_ the only ways anything is ever handled out here in space. He glares at the screens and tries to force his brain to come up with _something._ But while he can normally light on a solution instinctively almost before he recognizes it consciously, now he’s got nothing. Every method of attack he can think to use will trigger a lockdown and put those kids in danger. And he can see the same frustrated defeat in everyone else’s eyes.   
  
Everyone except Pidge. She’s frowning thoughtfully now, and abruptly turns away from the screens to look at Allura. “Outside the box?” she says, almost contemplatively.  
  
“Is something wrong?” Allura asks, puzzled.  
  
“No, not at all,” Pidge says. “Actually…I think maybe you gave me an idea, Allura. You called them _allies,_ specifically, right?” She gestures at the four mice, ranged across Allura’s shoulders.  
  
Shiro frowns. “Pidge…”  
  
“No, hear me out, Shiro,” Pidge says. “I think…I think we weren’t getting sidetracked at all. I think that might be the answer. The _only_ answer, one the Galra definitely can’t predict, and maybe can’t block: Allura’s connection to the mice.”  
  
Allura’s eyes widen in surprise. “Oh!” she says, as the mice perk up on her shoulders with renewed interest. “I suppose that is uncommon. As far as I can tell, it only exists at all because I shared a cryo-pod with them for so long.”   
  
“Which means it can’t be blocked by technology,” Lance says, eyes widening in realization. “This isn’t something that can be stopped by that communications jamming hub, and they can’t even predict it with magic!”  
  
“But what about distance?” Hunk asks, frowning. “I mean…how far can you go? What if it _can_ be blocked by Galra shields, or interfered with, or something, and we just don’t know it?”  
  
“No,” Keith says, thoughtful now. It’s the first idea they’ve had at all, and he doesn’t want to see it shot down so easily. “Galra tech doesn’t affect it at all. Remember when Sendak took over the Castle and powered it up with that weird crystal? Allura and I were both locked outside the particle barrier, but she was still able to communicate with the mice, _inside_ the Castle, to take the barrier down.”  
  
Allura nods in agreement. “And I’ve talked to them before all over the Castle. I think the range is fairly significant. I lost the connection when I was taken on Zarkon’s ship, but there was a vast distance involved there. I think for the purposes of sneaking into this facility, I should be able to maintain it easily enough.”  
  
“Can you do it on an individual basis?” Shiro asks. “If each mouse is conveying different information to you at the same time, can you make sense of that?”  
  
“Yes,” Allura says confidently. “It’s a bit jumbled, with four different sets of thoughts, but it is not unlike all of you speaking on the comms at the same time. I think it is possible to manage, from my perspective.” She frowns. “But I am worried about putting them in so much danger.”  
  
The red mouse squeaks loudly in protest, and jabs at the air again with its tiny front paws. Keith swears it looks insulted. Pidge notices as well, and points out, “You asked for their help when Sendak took over.”  
  
“Yes, but that was only to have them turn off the particle barrier,” Allura says. “We knew Sendak did not have very many soldiers left under his command. The chances of them running into danger were small, especially when you were harrying their forces at the time. Going into a highly secure Galra facility, however…”   
  
The red mouse squeaks indignantly again, jabbing once more with its paws, and the green one joins it. The others seem less enthusiastic, but the big yellow one pats Allura on the neck almost comfortingly, and the tiny blue one scurries up and down her arm once before jumping up and down on her shoulder. Most importantly as far as Keith can tell, none of them have bolted for the nearest crawlspace, and Pidge had said they understood everything that was going on. Keith’s not really an expert on the mice, but he has a feeling that says a lot about how they feel on the situation.  
  
As if coming to the same conclusion, Lance points out, “They don’t seem to mind. In fact, it looks like a couple of them are volunteering.” The red and green mice jump up and down in agreement.   
  
Allura sighs. “They are. I suppose I can’t stop them, and it is the only idea we’ve had…”  
  
“We won’t be sending the mice in unprotected,” Shiro assures. “This won’t be like with Sendak’s attack, either. If everyone is on board with this as a solution…”  
  
The mice all squeak in agreement, and none of the paladins object. Even Coran looks more like his usual self again now that they maybe have an option at their disposal, less serious and frustrated. And after a moment, Allura sighs and nods. The mice swarm down her shoulders and collect in her gathered hands, looking enthusiastic and alert now that they’re a part of Team Voltron’s attack.

 

  
  
Shiro glances around at them all, and nods. “Alright. Then I think I’ve got a plan, but it’s still going to hinge on tight coordination and stealth, and for this to work Allura will also need to be on the ground with us.”   
  
She nods, determined. “That’s not a problem for me. We won’t need to maintain wormholes for this mission. Coran can handle the Castle of Lions and maintain communications with the Dassians.”  
  
Coran doesn’t exactly look pleased at the thought of Allura potentially entering combat, but he’s smart enough to know they don’t have much of a choice. “Yes, princess.”  
  
“Good,” Shiro continues. “We split into five teams, each with a specific switch to aim for. Everyone is to use stealth at all times—do _not_ engage or indicate we’re there in any way, or we’ll lose before we even get started. Allura and I will be the first team, and we’ll head for the center key switch, where we believe the children are also being held. Since we don’t know her exact range for communication, better to err on the side of caution and make sure she stays in the center.   
  
“Keith, you’ll head for the Northern key switch, Lance takes the Western one, Hunk takes the Eastern one, and Pidge, your goal is the Southern one. All four of you will take one of the mice with you. Your job is to get them to the switch as stealthily as possible and protect them at all times. When everyone is in position, the mice can communicate with Allura, and the five of them can flip the switches simultaneously.   
  
“When the kids are freed, Allura and I will start guiding them out. Pidge, once they’re free and the chance of a lockdown is negated, you’ll need to hack through the Galra tech to break it down and give the Dassians a chance to strike. Getting those kids safely out is going to be tricky without backup. Everyone else, meet up and get out as soon as possible. Clear?”  
  
“As crystal,” Pidge says. The others are grinning now, looking more inspired than before now that they actually have a course of action that they can take and a plan ready to go.   
  
And Keith…well, Keith’s happy they have a plan, at least. He’ll be able to _act,_ and that’s something. Sitting around doing nothing was driving him crazy. He’d still prefer a full on attack to stealth, but he _can_ be sneaky when he wants to be, and he’ll do it for the sake of those hostages.   
  
He’s not really all that thrilled about working with a mouse, though. He’s not scared of rodents or anything, but he’d found rats and mice to be pests more than anything else back on Earth. When he’d lived in his little shack in the desert, wild mice had constantly gotten into his food and chewed up the few belongings that he’d had, and it had been a royal pain in the ass. Allura’s mice aren’t the same, obviously—they’re clearly intelligent, and they’re Allura’s friends, so he’s never outright hated them or anything. But they’ve mostly ignored him, and he’s been content to return the sentiment. He’s never had any cause to interact with any of them before, and he’s not really sure how he’s supposed to deal with being partnered with one now.  
  
Plus, if he’s honest with himself, he’s not entirely sure he’s comfortable with being responsible for something else so much smaller and more helpless than him. Keith has always looked out for himself, and he’s just fine with that. Being responsible for his own actions is easy, no matter the consequences, and if he screws up or something goes wrong, the only person that gets hurt is himself. Adding one of the mice to the equation is…well, it’s a lot more complicated than that. If he fails, or if he makes the wrong call, he’s not the only one that will pay the price.   
  
But he doesn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, and this whole mission is extremely time sensitive. The longer they wait, the longer those young princes and princesses will be trapped in Galra control. So Keith will deal with working with a mouse, as long as the mouse behaves itself, and then when they’re done they can go back to comfortably ignoring each other.   
  
“Alright,” Shiro says. “Then if everyone knows their jobs…well, pick your partners, I guess.” He waves his hand at the mice in Allura’s palms.  
  
As it turns out, the paladins don’t choose their partners at all. The mice choose their paladins. All four of them scurry down Allura’s combat suit to the floor as soon as Shiro finishes speaking, and make an immediate beeline for Pidge. The three smaller mice outstrip the yellow one almost immediately; it stops, yawns, seems to realize it’s not going to be as fast as the others, and immediately turns to toddle over to Hunk. Hunk chuckles and crouches to scoop the mouse up in his hands, offering a fond scritch with his finger, and a piece of some kind of cookie from the platter he’d made earlier. Keith is hardly surprised by the choice—it’s not the first time he’s walked past the kitchen to spot Hunk cooking or baking, and using the yellow mouse as a taste tester.   
  
The remaining three make it halfway to Pidge before the race turns into a scuffle, as the mice start fighting over their chosen paladin. The tiny blue mouse is ejected almost cartoonishly from the flashing fur and angry squeaks, and it chitters indignantly at its fellows before bolting for Lance’s chair. It crawls up Lance’s armor onto the chair’s arm, and settles within the protective curl of Lance’s thumb and forefinger. Once there, it immediately begins grooming its ears with a haughty air, as if this had _obviously_ been its choice from the beginning and it had completely meant to do all of this.  
  
Lance snorts in amusement. “Got my partner, I guess,” he says. Keith notes that he’s very careful to not move his hand, now that the blue mouse has claimed it as some form of shelter.  
  
The red and green mice are still scuffling on the floor, but there’s a sudden squeak as the green one kicks its fellow away and bolts for Pidge. It reaches her boots and scurries up onto her shoulder quickly, staring down at the red one with a look of clear victory from her shoulder. She shakes her head in exasperation. “There was no need to fight, guys,” she says. “You should apologize, Plachu.”   
  
The green mouse on her shoulder squeaks. Based on Allura’s frown, Keith suspects whatever the squeak means is less of an apology and more of a victory crow, but he has no way to really tell. The red mouse looks irritated, if its flattened ears and bristling fur are any indication, but after a moment it turns and scuttles almost sullenly for Keith.   
  
Keith resists the urge to scowl as he watches the little creature crawl up the red paladin’s chair. He feels like he just got picked last in gym class for some team exercise. He tries not to feel too insulted about being the last choice—after all, the mice have interacted with everyone else more than him, except maybe Shiro, who they also seem to ignore.   
  
_They don’t know you,_ he reminds himself. _They don’t have any reason to trust you or want to be your partner. And it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like we actually need to bond or anything, like we do for the Lions. Just get it to the key switch, let it do its thing, and get it out again, and that’s it. Nice and simple._   
  
Still, the sensation of the mouse crawling on him is, well, _weird._ It’s so tiny, small enough that he can’t even feel it as it transfers from the arm of the paladin’s chair to the vambrace of the paladin armor. That’s actually worse, because he can’t really track where it is on him by feel, or know what it’s doing. How is he supposed to get something so tiny and easily broken through this mission alive if he can’t even tell where it is? He nearly starts when it brushes at his hair and crawls over the tall collar of the curias to settle in against his neck, and keeps awkwardly still, unsure how he’s supposed to move when he’s got a passenger.   
  
“I guess that settles that,” Shiro says, looking a little amused even despite the seriousness of the situation.   
  
“I just want to point out,” Lance says, “Just so we’re _all_ clear on how ridiculous this has gotten. We are the paladins of Voltron, the greatest weapon in the universe, the most irreplaceable pilots and badass warriors in existence, and our current mission is being bodyguards for mice so _they_ can save the world. How is this fair?”   
  
The little blue mouse squeaks, and nips him on the thumb.  
  
“Ow! Watch the teeth!” Lance yips indignantly. “They’re sharp, you know!”   
  
The tiny blue mouse scurries up onto his wrist in answer, circling once on the blue gauntlet computer, gesturing repeatedly and squeaking loudly. Almost directly in Keith’s ear, he can hear his own mouse let out a soft, breathy squeaking that he swears is laughter, and wonders what exactly the blue one is saying.  
  
“We’ve saved the universe enough times that I think we can share,” Shiro says patiently. “Just this once I think we can let…er…” He trails off, giving Allura a questioning look.  
  
“Chulatt,” Allura fills in, gesturing at the tiny blue mouse now scurrying up Lance’s forearm. “And that’s Platt and Plachu,” she adds, gesturing to the yellow and green mouse respectively, “and Chuchule is with Keith, but appears to be hiding…”  
  
Lance snickers. “Buried in that mullet,” he agrees. “It’s a literal rat’s nest.” The blue mouse now on his shoulder squeaks in protest. “Right. Sorry. Mouse’s nest.”   
  
“Oh, shut up,” Keith mutters. He can feel the red mouse—Chuchule—buried back against his neck in his hair, and tries to shoo it out, but the mouse only skitters to the other side. Lance laughs harder. Keith scowls. It’s been less than five minutes and he can already tell he’s not looking forward to this mission.  
  
“Right,” Shiro agrees, with a warning note in his tone that definitely says _enough messing around_ , “the point is we can let Chulatt and the others be the heroes for once, as long as we keep them safe and get those kids out of there in one piece.”  
  
“And we do have a limited amount of time to do so,” Coran points out, bringing up one of the holographic screens. “According to Dassian intel, the Galra intend to move the children off planet soon, to make them more difficult to find and rescue. If that happens they could end up in the heart of Galra territory, and a rescue mission may become impossible.”  
  
“Then it’s time to get moving,” Shiro says, all business. He snatches his helmet from the seat of his own paladin’s chair and fits it on, before gesturing to the others. “Get ready, we’re moving out now. We’ll take the pods—the Lions will be too obvious and ruin the mission before we can get started. Pidge, make sure they’re installed with cloaking technology. Lance and Pidge, you’ll come with me and Allura—I’ll drop you off at safe range for your gates before we head for ours. Keith, take a second pod, drop Hunk off in range, and get to your own station. Everyone clear on the plan?”  
  
There’s a chorus of acknowledgements, and Shiro nods. “Alright. Good. Then let’s get to work.”  
  
Keith climbs to his feet, and reaches for his own helmet resting on the arm of his chair. The sudden movement and leaning forward for the helm nearly dislodges Chuchule, who squeaks in surprise and clings to Keith’s hair like a tether to keep from being flung out into open air. Keith curses at the painful tug, and tries to glare angrily at the little mouse, but it’s so tiny and too close to his head for him to be able to actually see it. “Ow! Don’t _pull._ That hurts!”  
  
The mouse crawls back up over his collarbone when it manages to regain its footing—Keith thinks, anyway, based on the light little footsteps he can feel on the undersuit of the armor there. It chatters angrily and gives what is _definitely_ a deliberate tug on his hair again. Keith winces at the pull. “Okay, I _get_ it. I’m sorry I forgot you were there, just quit _pulling_.”  
  
The mouse stops tugging, message apparently delivered. Keith mutters under his breath, but before he can find any relief from it Chuchule is already moving again, burrowing up through his hair to the top of his head. The mouse tugs insistently (but slightly less painfully) at a bit of hair on the right, squeaking loudly. Keith figures out after a moment or two that it’s trying to direct him after Pidge, who is already heading for the hangar.  
  
“Hey!” he scowls, and glares upwards as best as he can at the mouse, even if he can’t actually see Chuchule balanced on top of his skull. “Let’s get something straight here—I’m not a Lion, and you can’t pilot _me_ , got it?”  
  
“I dunno, it worked well enough in _Ratatouille,_ ”  Lance says, smirking a little. Chulatt squeaks in annoyance on his own shoulder, and he adds, “Look, it’s the name of the movie, I really can’t do anything about that, okay?”  
  
Keith clenches his jaw for a moment. “Just…get down here so I can put my helmet on, okay?” he grouses, uncomfortably aware that everyone is not only staring at him, but looking like they’re fighting back snickers of amusement. He can even see it behind Shiro’s stern facade; he’s known Shiro too long to fall for that fake-responsible look.   
  
Chuchule reluctantly scurries down onto his shoulder, squeaking to itself and holding on tight to give Keith enough room to adjust the helm. The mouse seems to have its own idea of how it intends to do things on this mission, and damn the consequences. Keith already knows based on that reaction alone it’s going to be a _long_ mission.  
  
But at least he can console himself with one comforting fact: when he puts on his helmet, at least he can tuck his hair in.


	2. Chapter 2

Three quarters of a varga later, Keith is crouched outside of the northern entrance to the facility, ducked carefully behind a storage building as he waits for an opening.   
  
Getting this far hasn’t been difficult. Dropping off Hunk in the stealthed pod was easy, and stashing it in the shadows of a derelict alleyway four blocks away had been child’s play. Sneaking close to the facility hadn’t taken too long, either; the Galra patrols weren’t particularly strong in the city proper. They didn’t have to be. They knew they had the Dassians by the throat, and that its people would never raise a hand against their oppressors while their rulers’ young were in danger. It says a lot about the state of affairs on the planet, but it works in Keith’s favor now.  
  
Getting farther in will be tricky, though. The actual imprisonment facility does have regularly patrolling sentries, and based on Dassian intel, there’s more than a few druids and live officers inside as well. And Keith can’t afford to be spotted by any of them—not until he can deliver his charge to the designated point in the next one and a half vargas.   
  
The charge in question scratches at his neck, just above the hem of the under-armor and right under his jawline. Keith scowls, but he certainly can’t see Chuchule at this angle. “Knock it off,” he hisses, low under his breath. “That’s annoying.”  
  
The mouse scratches at his neck again, insistent, and tugs at the hem of the under armor. This is Chuchule’s replacement for hair pulling, it seems, although thankfully it hurts a lot less. The mouse gives a low, insistent squeak, and Keith shakes his head in frustration. “No! We can’t go yet. There are sentries _everywhere._ ”  
  
Chuchule makes another indignant squeaking noise just beneath Keith’s jaw and tugs again, and then he feels the odd, scurrying sensation of the mouse crawling down his collarbone and trying to scuttle over the gap in his armor plating. Keith barely bites back a curse of frustration, and hastily clamps a hand over the mouse’s small body, trying to avoid crushing the little creature while still holding it in place. It’s difficult to manage. He’s not used to working with such tiny creatures, and he’s not really sure how much strength is too much. He’s still a little afraid of hurting it by accident, but he’s also not going to put up with the mouse’s antics.  
  
“No!” he hisses, still trying to keep his voice low, but even then he can’t restrain the irritated edge to his tone. “Stay _still!_ Look, my _one_ job is to get us in and out of here, so just stay put and let me do my thing, and I’ll let you do yours when the time comes, okay?”  
  
Chuchule nips at his thumb in irritation, and even through the glove, Keith can feel it pinch. He doesn’t release the mouse, though. After the moment he hears Chuchule sigh, and let out a resigned squeak. Keith awkwardly pushes the creature back up into the safety of the armor’s collar against his neck, and the mouse settles in place again. But he almost swears he thing is grumbling under its tiny little breaths.  
  
Keith checks the time on the visual screens of the helmet, and grimaces a little at the wasted ticks. But thankfully, with Chuchule behaving itself—for the moment, at least—Keith is able to focus on the patrols passing by. He counts the ticks as each sentry passes, and makes note of their patterns, mindful of Shiro’s stories about his escape. Normally, Keith would just bring a few of the sentries down out of sight and stash the bodies, but doing so this early on might get him noticed, and they can't afford to bring any attention to themselves.  
  
Keith hates waiting even so, and he can feel himself getting fidgety as the minutes pass. He repeats Shiro’s mantra, _patience yields focus_ , in his mind over and over. But even so, he wants to be _doing_ something, not sitting around and waiting. Chuchule seems to share his sentiments; the mouse paces back and forth around the back of his neck from his left shoulder to his right, and back again. Neither of them is particularly pleased with the ‘stealth’ aspect of this mission, it seems. It’s the first thing he’s been able to relate to with his partner since the whole mess started.  
  
But at last, Keith spots his opportunity, a blind point in the patrol routes of three sentries when none of them are facing in his direction. He immediately pushes from a crouch to a dead run, bolting for the entrance to the facility. Chuchule squeaks indignantly in his ear as he bursts into movement, and he can feel the mouse scratching at his neck in alarm as it tries to secure a hold before it slides off his shoulders.   
  
Oops. Passenger, right. It’s going to take a while to get used to that.  
  
He can’t slow down now, though, and darts to the door in the precious few ticks he has to go unnoticed. The Dassians have supplied them with codes for the outer doors—the most useful piece of intel they were able to provide, unfortunately—and Pidge has rigged their wrist computers to generate them automatically. Keith shines the laser output from his red gauntlet on the door’s access panel, an after a moment it blinks, and the door slides open.  
  
“Nice work, Pidge,” he murmurs under his breath, as he slips inside and closes the door behind him.  
  
The interior is blissfully empty, fortunately. It would be just his luck that he’d walk into a room with a half dozen sentries waiting, guns ready. Unfortunately, from here on out he’s more or less on his own. The blueprints the Dassians had provided were incomplete, which means Keith doesn’t have an exact floor plan to work with. He knows the approximate direction of the controls he’s searching for, but getting there is entirely up to him, and he needs to manage it before the pre-arranged one and a half vargas are up.  
  
Well, standing around will only get him caught. The controls are supposed to be at the center of this northernmost wing, so he heads down the hall closest to the south, and hopes it’ll get him at least in the right direction.  
  
Half a varga later, Keith is certainly farther into the facility, but he’s not exactly sure if he can call it progress. It’s hard to tell where he is—there are a lot of twists and turns and forks, and he’s not sure if he’s taken any of the right ones. He tries to keep heading in an approximately southern direction to counteract coming in from the north, using the readouts in his visor as a guide, but he’s not sure it’s helping. He can’t even read the signs to help with directions. Half of it is in a squiggly sort of writing Keith can only assume is leftover Dassian from when the building was repurposed, and the rest he recognizes as the Galra written language, neither of which he can read.  
  
It doesn’t help that he can’t simply stride through the halls and find his way there at a leisurely pace. Stealth is still imperative for the mission; he can’t afford to be caught now. It means he spends a lot of his time ducking into empty rooms and hiding around corners when he hears the sudden clank of sentries nearby, and he wastes precious dobashes sitting still and waiting for the patrols to pass. At this rate, it really is going to take him the full time limit just to make it a decent way into the building.  
  
Chuchule is no help, either. The mouse is anxious to participate in the mission and raring to get moving, clearly, because it spends most of its time pacing back and forth on Keith’s shoulders and peeking over his collar at the hallways beyond. Twice during the periods of waiting, Chuchule tries to scuttle down his neck and over the curiass for the ground again. Keith has to catch the mouse in one hand both times, and push him back up onto his shoulders with a warning glare. He has no idea what Chuchule’s intentions are, but he’s _not_ letting them get caught because of a mouse’s impatience.   
  
Chuchule, for its part, does not seem particularly pleased with being held back, or manhandled. The mouse nips his fingers in irritation every time Keith catches it and pushes it back onto his shoulders, and squeaks angrily (but thankfully, quietly) in his ears when they’re able to go on the move again. The mouse clearly has its own ideas about who’s in charge of this mission, ideas that just as clearly differ from Keith’s own. He’s already looking forward to that moment in the future when he no longer has to work with a space rodent as a partner. He already misses Red. At least _she_ listens to him.  
  
Still, for all the setbacks, Keith does manage to steadily wind his way farther into the facility without losing his mouse, not for Chuchule’s lack of trying. He can tell he’s a reasonable distance from the door he came in, at any rate. That has to be a good sign, right? Now if only he could find the key switch he’s supposed to be targeting…  
  
It’s at another fork in the halls when things unexpectedly take a bad turn. He’s studying his visor’s readouts, almost sure he’s taken a wrong path, and trying to determine which way will take him further south. He keeps his ears pricked as he focuses on the visuals, but he doesn’t hear the clank of sentry boots, and figures he has a moment or two to breathe and try to figure out his next choice.  
  
But Chuchule takes the choice out of his hands. The mouse huddles sullenly against the column of his neck, where Keith has more or less gotten used to the feel of him at this point. But the mouse snaps upright suddenly, ears flicking high and tickling Keith just under the jaw. Chuchule abruptly makes a low squeak, and starts scratching at Keith’s neck, tugging at the hem of his under armor again.  
  
“Will you knock that off?” Keith hisses. “I’m trying to focus here—“  
  
Chuchule tugs more insistently, and actually scrabbles up enough to nip at the small bit of exposed skin on his neck. Keith barely bites back a yelp of surprise—that _hurts_ when not protected by a glove—and starts angrily. “Quit it! This is hard enough without you attacking me!”   
  
He tries to push the mouse away from his neck, but Chuchule has other plans. The mouse abruptly leaps on the back of his hand and scampers up his wrist, then launches itself into open air.   
  
Keith’s eyes widen in alarm, and he tries to make a grab for the escaping rodent. But Chuchule is much more nimble than anticipated, and Keith misses, free hand just barely brushing the end of the mouse’s long tail. Chuchule drops to the metal floor with a soft _thwack_ , but the drop doesn’t seem to bother the mouse—must be the ‘space’ part of space-mouse. Before Keith can react, the rodent bolts down the nearest hallway.  
  
 _“No!”_ Keith hisses under his breath, cursing. Chuchule is already several feet ahead, and if Keith lets him get out of sight he’s not sure he’ll ever find the rodent again in this facility.   
  
Swearing internally, Keith darts after him, hoping against hope nobody comes around the corner and…damn, what will they even do if somebody _does?_ Not only will Chuchule have blown their cover, but would the mouse even _survive_ an encounter like that? Keith’s sole job on this mission is to keep the mouse safe entirely because Allura was worried about putting her little friends in harm’s way. There’s a lot of things in here that could kill a mouse easily; Chuchule is just so _tiny_ to be in so much danger. Hell, Keith’s half afraid he could get the mouse hurt himself. The thought makes him nervous.   
  
He wonders if this is how Red feels, watching her pilot go off into battle without her. He must seem way too tiny and fragile by comparison.   
  
Keith finally manages to catch up when Chuchule darts inside an empty room farther down the corridor. He crouches and snatches the mouse up, careful not to use more force than necessary while still holding on tight enough to keep the creature from squirming out of his hands again. “What the hell was that!” he snaps angrily, trying to keep his voice low and only partially succeeding. “Are you trying to get us caught? You can’t run off like that—“  
  
Chuchule lets out an angry squeak and nips Keith on the thumb. When Keith glares, the mouse presses a paw to its mouth, then points at Keith’s face, and then the door. Keith blinks in confusion, lecture cutting off as he tries to puzzle out the mouse’s miming.  
  
And then he hears it—the click of boots on metal. The sound is much softer than the usual sentry clanks, and a moment later Keith can make out the low murmur of completely natural voices outside.   
  
“—systems in the right quadrant are fine, no signs of tampering. The royal family has ceased trying to deactivate it after our last transmission.”  
  
Keith’s eyes widen as the voices get closer, and he presses himself back against the wall on the far side of the door, hopefully out of sight of whoever is passing. One hand hovers near his bayard’s energy sheath at his thigh, just in case. The other still holds Chuchule, now curled loosely against his side for concealment. The mouse’s ears are upright, flicking carefully as it listens.  
  
“Are they finally getting the message?”  
  
“The commander thinks so. They won’t put their young at risk, at any rate. It should suffice until the transport comes tomorrow…”  
  
The voices grow more distant, and through a crack in the doorway Keith can see the retreating backs of two full-blooded Galra soldiers, one wearing the darker colored armor of a minor officer. They reach the end of the passage and turn out of sight, and Keith realizes belatedly that they’d come from the same direction as the place he’d been standing just a dobosh prior. He’d been so absorbed in trying to navigate he hadn’t heard the much quieter tread of natural steps compared to heavy sentry ones.   
  
He hadn’t…but Chuchule apparently had. “You knew they were coming?” Keith asks, eyebrows raised, as he lifts the mouse closer to his face to look it in the eye.  
  
Chuchule squeaks, and puffs out its little chest, looking particularly pleased with itself.  
  
“And you were trying to warn me,” Keith says in realization.  
  
The mouse nods, and squeaks again.  
  
“Okay,” Keith says slowly, a little bewildered. “Uh. Thanks for that, but next time don’t run off, okay? I’m supposed to keep you safe. I can’t do that if you’re not with me.”  
  
The mouse seems to sigh, but nods again.   
  
“And don’t bite,” Keith adds, with a scowl. “That hurts.”  
  
Chuchule bristles a little at this, and pushes at Keith’s thumb in answer, shoving it away pointedly.  
  
“Fine,” Keith says, a little exasperated, but less annoyed than before. “You stay put and I won’t have to grab you. Don’t _bite_ and maybe I’ll try listening.”  
  
The mouse’s whiskers twitch, but after a moment it nods a third time, and offers a mock salute with its tiny paws.   
  
“Great,” Keith says. “Okay. Fine. Let’s just…figure out where we are. We’ve still got three quarters of a varga, but I think we’re still nowhere close to where we need to be.” He raises his hand to his shoulder and lets Chuchule leap back into the safe space of his armor’s collar, curling up against his neck. He can feel the mouse’s tail winding around the back of his neck for balance. Once he’s sure the mouse is secure, he pokes his head out the door, checks that everything is empty, and darts into the hallways again.  
  
He eventually decides on a path—the leftmost fork, in the long run—and continues on. There are more forks beyond that, as well as stairwells leading up or down, and Keith starts feeling like he’s getting turned around for all his best efforts. He keeps a careful eye on his visor’s directions, but it doesn’t help. Not even Chuchule seems to have any idea where to go, judging by the way the mouse paces fretfully back and forth around the back of Keith’s neck.   
  
At least Chuchule is helpful in one regard though: the guards. After almost being caught the first time, Keith learns to trust Chuchule’s ears, and the mouse gets better at communicating when danger is coming without resorting to biting and scratching. Several sharp paw-taps against his neck are enough to warn Keith to duck out of sight, and this time, Keith knows better than to ignore the mouse. He has ample time to hide in side rooms or behind stacks of crates and supplies, crouching in the shadows. Chuchule will crouch near the base of his neck, ears pricked and listening attentively to give the all clear when the danger is past. It makes stealth at least a little easier, when Keith has a second set of ears and eyes with him to focus on that while he tackles navigation.  
  
Unfortunately, even when he can put his full attention on finding the way, it’s not much use. When the readout in one corner of his visor ticks down to the half-varga mark, Keith starts feeling the first edges of worry. He’s still nowhere close to this key switch, and hasn’t even a rough idea of where it is, and they’re running out of time.   
  
When Chuchule gives the signal to hide again, Keith reacts immediately, frustrated at the new delay but knowing better than to question the mouse. He looks around for a safe place to hide, but there’s not much to work with, and in the end he ducks beneath a stairwell. It’s not ideal, but hopefully it’s tucked far away enough in an alcove that he won’t be immediately spotted, and the shadows it casts are enough to dull the white and red of his armor.   
  
But he doesn’t hear the soft click of officers’ boots or the chatter of natural voices, or even the harsh stamps of sentries. For a moment he’s confused, and almost willing to call it a false alarm—a bad call from the stress of the mission building up. A mouse isn’t trained for battle like the paladins are, Keith supposes. It’s annoying, but what else would he expect?  
  
But then he feels it: a sickly sort of sensation that he can’t quite put any one sense to. It reminds him of a cloying, musty scent, but one he remembers more than actually smells with his nose. It’s the first churning pangs of a stomachache when one first starts to suspect they’re not feeling well, but he's not really ill. It’s the taste of ash and dust in his suddenly dry mouth, even when he’s breathing through his nose. There’s a whole feeling of _wrongness_ to it that he can’t quite name, can’t quite place, but something feels just unnatural, like an oily residue on the very essence of life itself in the world around him. He doesn’t like it. It feels bad. It feels warped.   
  
It feels _familiar._   
  
_Bright, sickly yellow everywhere, the crackle of unnatural energy, the brute force and power of an attack he can’t counter no matter what he does. The sudden realization that he’s helpless, that he’s in a fight he can’t win, that he’s dead meat unless he escapes. And all the while his tormenter is silent, clawed hands clutching at that wild, unnatural, wrong power, staring through that strange many-eyed mask, and it’s so wrong wrong_ wrong _that for the first time Keith knows fear_.   
  
Oh, it feels _far_ too familiar.  
  
On his shoulder, Chuchule starts shivering, a quivering little ball of fur suddenly devoid of all bravado. The mouse presses up against Keith’s neck anxiously and tries to freeze perfectly still, but Keith can still feel the mouse trembling. And Keith doesn’t blame Chuchule for a second, because he can feel that presence of _wrongness_ getting ever closer.   
  
He swallows and drops his hand to his side, where his bayard is holstered in the thigh piece of his armor. The bayard appears in a quick flash of red energy and extends with a soft _shing_ , and a moment Keith’s heart pangs wildly at the thought that maybe it’s given his location away. Any sound, any visual hint that they’re here, anything at all could get them killed if he’s right about what’s coming. But he doesn’t want to face them unprepared either. That way lies death.   
  
The druid appears around the corner, and with it comes that miasma of _wrongness_ that Keith can’t quite place or understand but knows for certain is there on a gut level. Like all druids, this one is completely covered in a long, thick cloak, and even their clawed fingers are currently hidden in their voluminous sleeves. The long, pointed, many-eyed mask and deep hood leave no trace of the druid’s face visible, and it makes them seem all the more unnatural, like some sort of specter crossed through to the mortal plane. They move with an unnatural smoothness, more of a glide than a walk, the hems of their robes unruffled.   
  
Keith swallows as he watches the druid drift silently down the halls. There’s no footsteps that he can hear. He’s not even sure how Chuchule knew the caster was coming, unless he could sense that… _badness_ that seems to emanate from them. They move at an unhurried pace, seemingly unaware of the invader within feet of them.   
  
Chuchule’s shuddering gets stronger against Keith’s neck, and the mouse presses closer still, like it’s trying to burrow into Keith’s undersuit for some place to hide. Keith can’t see the poor mouse, but he can tell from feel that the creature is terrified, and probably too afraid of moving where it might draw attention. Keith’s right hand is occupied with his bayard, but he ever-so-slowly crawls his left hand across his chest to his neck, and cups his fingers around the mouse protectively to shield it from view. He feels Chuchule press against his palm and hunker down deeper into the cage of his fingers, but the shaking lessens just slightly.  
  
Keith can’t blame Chuchule for being frightened—truth be told, Keith is, too. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, loud enough that it _has_ to attract the attention of the druid, he’s sure. He’s afraid to blink for fear of the caster disappearing in a puff of smoke the moment he takes his eyes off them. But he can’t help himself.   
  
He’s not used to being so scared of an enemy, so frightened he’s unsure of how to act. Sentries, fighters, Galra soldiers—they’ve all fought with brute force and technical skill. Keith is confident in his own martial arts and his skills with a blade, and knows how to defend himself against them. Even his fight against Zarkon hadn’t scared him as much as this. Sure, Zarkon had damaged Red badly and nearly killed him—but the way he’d done it was still all understandable. Zarkon was terrifyingly powerful, but it was all with a grace and force Keith can comprehend and acknowledge and respect. He was just stronger because he’d had ten thousand years of practice and experience, but that strength wasn’t incomprehensible. Zarkon was a soldier. He’d _fought_. Keith _gets_ that.  
  
But druids are _different_ than anything he’s ever fought before. They’re unpredictable, with strange powers Keith can’t even begin to wrap his mind around the extent of. The last one he’d fought harnessed crackling bolts of power with ease, casually decimating the cylinders and structure around them while barely lifting a finger. They had been able to instantly teleport into an exact advantageous position to catch Keith off guard with only a puff of acrid smoke as the slightest warning. And nothing Keith had tried—sword, shield, instinctive maneuvering, skill or brute force—had put so much as a scratch in them.   
  
That battle had been the first time Keith had _ever_ considered running from a fight, and it had been the first time he’d truly been afraid for his life, or wondered if he would make it out of that mission alive. It was also the first time he’d taken any serious injury and felt genuine, nerve-wracking _pain_ , with damage so strong his gloves had melted away and burned into his skin and left vivid, patchy scars that only the touch of raw quintessence had been able to heal. Keith’s been hurt before in the past, in fights both on Earth and now in space, but never like _that._ If Pidge hadn’t extracted him, he knows he’d be dead, end of story.  
  
Druids are something otherworldly. Something Keith doesn’t know how to fight. And to Keith, who considers fighting one of the few things he really _excels_ at, that’s terrifying. These things are beyond even his countless hours of training and katas and study. They’re unknown, they’re powerful, and they’re unstoppable, and it only took one battle for Keith to realize he’d rather fight Zarkon a second time than even one more druid. He’s powerless in the face of them, and that feeling of helplessness is more painful than even the vivid memory of the melting burn scars on his hands.   
  
And yet there one is in the hallway, mere feet from Keith’s hiding place. And all he can do now is desperately hope they don’t get caught.  
  
The druid freezes in place, robes swishing gently, and Keith feels his heart thud in his throat. The long mask cocks slowly to one side, and the movement is unnatural and spine chilling when it appears to bend too far, like they’ve broken their own neck. They go perfectly still, and Keith swallows, wills himself to be as silent as possible. His thudding heart disagrees with him. _Surely_ the druid isn’t _listening,_ right? They can’t hear him. They _can’t_. He’d snuck up on one before…  
  
 _But that one caught you last time,_ the little voice in the back of Keith’s mind reminds him sharply. _Maybe it knows you’re here._   
  
Chuchule’s shaking grows stronger against his palm, and Keith has a strange feeling the mouse is thinking along the same lines as him. And although he’s also afraid, he curls his fingers a little more protectively around the creature, like he can somehow hide Chuchule’s existence from the monstrosity only a few feet distant. He _will_ see this mission through, though. He _will_ protect this mouse, and get Chuchule to the targeted area, and he _will_ save those kids, druid or no.  
  
The druid remains still for almost five doboshes; Keith counts each tick on his visor and by his own thudding heartbeats. Part of him desperately wants to attack, steal the surprise initiative before this _thing_ can get the jump on them, instead. But no, _no._ He fights back the urge, and repeats Shiro’s mantra in his head again. _Patience yields focus. Patience yields focus. Stay still. Wait. Watch._  
  
And Shiro’s words are right. An attack never does come, and Keith’s patience pays off when the druid finally turns their head, mask settling upright again. Keith can see the tips of the druid’s clawed fingers flex slightly as though kneading at the air, but after a long moment the caster finally moves on, gliding away down the hall and out of sight.   
  
Keith doesn’t move for a long time after that, even so. There’s something unnatural about the way these druids move, the way they perceive things around them. It might look like the druid has left, but they could have doubled back in a puff of smoke, lying in wait for the threat they suspected was there. Keith’s never been one to be afraid to take risks, but there’s too much on the line for this, and he’s too afraid of the druids now to take them lightly.   
  
Another five doboshes pass without any other enemies, biological or robot, passing them in the halls. Chuchule finally unburies itself from the safety of Keith’s fingers. It pushes its head through the space in his thumb and forefinger gently, and gives the softest of squeaks.   
  
Keith lifts the mouse carefully, and turns his hand over so Chuchule can stand in his palm. He holds the mouse at eye level. “Are we clear?” he murmurs, low under his breath.  
  
Chuchule nods quickly. The mouse is no longer trembling, but it does look distinctly uneasy, and its ears are pricked high and listening intently. Keith knows better than to disregard Chuchule’s input on the closeness of the druid—without the mouse, Keith would have been caught in the open for sure.   
  
“Thanks for the warning,” he mutters, as he looks over the readouts on his visor. Only twenty doboshes left, and he still has no idea where he’s going. Things are getting too tight for comfort. But maybe…  
  
“Coran said the druids are the ones manning the key switches, right?” he murmurs to Chuchule. The mouse nods again. “So wherever that creepy guy came from…I bet that’s the way we want to go, right?” Chuchule shudders a little in Keith’s palm, but nods again. “Okay. Good. I think maybe we’ve got a better idea of where to head, then. At least, it’s worth trying, unless you have any better ideas.”  
  
Because really, at this point he’s willing to take advice from a mouse, too. At least it will be _something_.   
  
But Chuchule shakes its head, whiskers twitching in irritation. Keith sighs, but he expects nothing less. “Okay,” he murmurs, as he lifts his palm to his shoulder again, to let Chuchule settle back in against his neck, “Hang on, and keep an ear out for more of those guys. We definitely don’t want to get caught by one.”  
  
Chuchule squeaks in grim agreement.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Keith wastes no time heading down the hallway the druid had emerged from, feeling the urgency of their mission now in each tick that passes on his visor’s countdown. He keeps his bayard out at the ready now, and focuses all his efforts on finding the way, letting Chuchule be his eyes and ears in defensive maneuvering. They don’t come across more druids, thankfully—Keith wonders if there’s only one stationed in the northern section of this complex—but they do hide three more times from passing sentry patrols and officers. Keith chafes at every tick wasted hiding as the countdown ticks too close to the target time, and can only hope they’re going the right way.  
  
But then their luck changes. Keith darts around a corner, and immediately skids to a halt. There’s a new room the hallway here leads to, but unlike all the others they’ve come across so far, this one has a much thicker looking door, and a detailed computer pad just alongside it. The pad has a large screen with a red Galra handprint illuminated on it, and several keys and buttons just below the screen, all in Galra characters. A red light just above the pad definitely seems to indicate the door is locked.   
  
He’s not sure exactly what’s on the other side, but he has a gut feeling this is the place they’re looking for. Nothing else has been so securely blocked off as this that he’s seen yet. Keith gives the door itself a careful push, but it doesn’t open like the others. Definitely sealed tightly shut.  
  
 _Damn it,_ he curses internally. He hadn’t considered that the room itself would be locked, but in retrospect he should have. The Galra have taken extreme measures to control the Dassians, and have no interest in losing their hostages. The Dassians were never even supposed to be able to make it this far, with the communications being jammed, but in the event that they _did_ this would be yet another block for them.   
  
But what is he supposed to do now? There’s only ten doboshes left—not enough time to waste getting stuck at a door. He’s still not sure if there’s more to tackle on the other side. Smashing through isn’t an option—he’ll be caught for sure.   
  
On impulse, he tries the codes Pidge gave earlier, aiming his gauntlet at the security pad and activating the input. Nothing happens. Of course the external locks wouldn’t be the same as the internal ones, but he had to give it a shot.  
  
“I can’t hack things like Pidge can,” Keith mutters under his breath to Chuchule. “Or like Hunk. How the hell do we get in?”  
  
He stares at the security pad. The geometric handprint shape is familiar—it’s the same one on most Galra displays, the same one that had been on the Balmera when he and Lance had sealed the hangar weeks ago. He flexes his fingers hesitantly, and lifts his hand to maybe try it again like last time—it had worked last time, hadn’t it?  
  
But he stops before his fingers are within even a foot of the screen. It had worked before on the Balmera, but back then he’d assumed it was because the Galra had clearly been trying to lead them into a trap. They’d left all their other defenses wide open on purpose to draw the paladins inward to be captured, after all. It hadn’t seemed strange at all that their computers were unsecured, either.   
  
But now…now things aren’t the same. Things have been…they’ve been _strange_ lately. Unsettling. Facts just aren’t quite making sense anymore, and it leaves an uncomfortable, churning feeling in the pit of his stomach. The way his knife somehow has the same symbols and style as Ulaz’ blade, of these Blades of Marmora; the way he can sense energies the way none of the others are apparently able to, unless in close proximity to their own Lions; the way he feels inexplicably uneasy whenever Allura snaps about the Galra being untrustworthy. Keith finds he has more questions than answers these days about his already confusing past. His gut instinct is suggesting one thing, and he rarely disregards his instinct, but it doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t _want_ it to. He doesn’t want to accept that truth as a possibility. That maybe it could be _real._   
  
And if that security pad _does_ work if he touches it…then it will be more proof that his gut instinct is real. And he doesn’t want that. He can’t handle that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.  
  
He pulls his hand away from the screen sharply, clutching it closer to his chest like the security pad might burn him. He can’t try it. Not yet. Not unless there’s no way else. There has to be some other way in. There has to be something else they can use to get in, _anything_ else, without ruining their cover.   
  
Chuchule squeaks softly just below his jaw, and pats his neck once. By now, Keith has more or less figured out that the mouse won’t make noise if there’s an incoming enemy, so he’s fairly certain he’s not being warned to hide. He hears a scrabbling noise and the faint brush of a tail against his neck as Chuchule crawls awkwardly over the high collar of his paladin armor. The mouse skitters over to the wide red shoulder guard of his armor, just within Keith’s range of vision. Once within view, it squeaks softly again, and gestures to a point farther down the hallway.   
  
Keith frowns. “What are you…” he mutters, as he tries to follow the mouse’s small gestures. His eyes widen when he catches sight of the ventilation grate up by the ceiling. It’s small, not much bigger than the size of a cell phone, certainly nothing he would notice on his own or ever fit in.  
  
But a mouse certainly could.  
  
Keith considers. He’s not supposed to let Chuchule out of his sight, and his one and only job on this whole mission is to protect the creature. They shouldn’t split up if they can avoid it. But he doesn’t have any other options—  
  
(none that he would consider anyway, he thinks, as he flexes his fingers anxiously again)  
  
—and they’re running out of time. Chuchule’s proven to be relatively reliable so far. A little eager to get into the action, but if it’s just getting the door open…  
  
“Okay, fine,” Keith mutters to it, as he holds his free hand out to his shoulder, palm flat. Chuchule willingly leaps into his hand, looking ready for action, chest puffed out proudly. Keith frowns at it, and adds warningly, “ _Just_ get the door open. No heroics, no trying to fight things three hundred times bigger than you. Don’t blow our cover. And you’d better be careful.”  
  
Chuchule squeaks at him. Keith swears the mouse is rolling its eyes. Keith bites back an irritated response, and walks over to just below the ventilation shaft. It’s fairly high above his head, and even standing on tip-toe and extending his hand as far as he can reach, he still barely gets Chuchule within range. Chuchule jumps the last few inches, and manages to catch one of the bars. Keith keeps his hand braced beneath the mouse just in case the creature falls, but Chuchule’s grip steadies after a moment. It manages to wiggle between two of the thin metal grate pieces, until it’s little tail whips out of sight as it crawls into the vents.   
  
Keith steps back, dropping his arm to his side. Now all he can do is wait.  
  
He keeps an eye on the time via his visor. Three doboshes in, he starts to feel the first pangs of concern. If Chuchule had come across something dangerous, there’s nothing he can do to save the mouse, and he doesn’t even have a way to know where the creature is. Chuchule could be dead in the vents somewhere and he’d never know.   
  
Not for the first time, Keith catches himself wondering if this is how Red feels, every time he goes into a Galra facility without her. It’s not a very nice feeling, being strong enough to handle a multitude of dangers, and yet still feel so helpless to protect or act at all.  
  
He wonders if this is how Shiro feels so often, too, sending them all into battle without always being there to cover them. It’s an unsettling and not entirely welcome feeling, to be responsible for another life so completely, yet also having to trust that life to handle itself. Keith’s never been responsible for anyone but himself before—and while he’s confident he can handle himself, it’s almost frightening to think someone else could rely so completely on him when he’s so used to being completely independent from anyone. He doesn’t know how Shiro does it, and he’s pretty sure he never wants to find out for himself.  
  
The heavy thud of sentry feet catches his attention and jerks him from his thoughts, and he glances around for some place to hide. But he’s in an open hallway with no other place to go, and he’s suddenly, painfully aware of just how vulnerable he is here out in the open. He clenches his jaw and tightens his hand around the hilt of his bayard, twisting to face the direction he can hear the sentries coming from. He’ll just have to try to bring them down as fast as he can, before they can report his presence—  
  
—and the door hisses softly as it snaps open next to him.   
  
Keith doesn’t waste any time. He dives through the open door immediately. It snaps shut again behind him with another soft hiss, just barely giving him enough time to pass through.  
  
Almost immediately on the other side there’s a single sentry. It turns to face him, and starts to raise the Galra blaster in its hands. But Keith hits it hard and fast, slamming his bayard’s blade through the weak point in the armor plating between chest and abdomen, and cutting up into its interior. The sentry’s core is disabled instantly, and the reddish-purple lighting in its eyes and on its chest flickers and dies as the robot powers off. It starts to collapse, but Keith hastily catches it around the shoulders, wedging the blaster against the sentry’s torso with his bayard to keep it from dropping. He lowers it carefully to the ground to avoid any loud crashing sounds.   
  
Then he freezes, and waits, glancing back over his shoulder towards the door as he crouches next to the destroyed sentry. There had been other guards passing—if they’d heard anything, they were sure to investigate, and his cover might be blown.   
  
But the sentries outside clank past without incident, apparently unaware of the intruder inside their control room. Keith lets out a soft sigh of relief under his breath, and rises to his feet, dematerializing his bayard as he looks around for Chuchule.  
  
The mouse is balanced precariously on the keypad on this side of the door, flattened up against the wall to keep from tumbling off it to the floor. Keith’s not even sure how the creature managed to get from the floor to the pad, other than through some very creative climbing or jumping. In its current position, the mouse can just barely lean forward and hit the open and close buttons on the keypad with its little front paw. This pad doesn’t appear to be as detailed or as secure as the one outside, a flaw that allows a little space mouse open the door. But it’s no wonder, really. The Galra had been trying to keep enemies out, not in.   
  
“Nice work,” Keith says, still keeping his voice low, as he absently reaches out a hand for the mouse. Chuchule needs no further invitation, and leaps into his palm, scampering up his arm to his shoulder armor. Its little chest puffs up proudly at the praise. “I’m guessing he didn’t notice you?” Chuchule nods an affirmative. “Great.”  
  
Now that the area is secure, Keith glances around to see exactly where it is they’ve even secured. It’s a small room, perfectly square and maybe fifteen paces across. It’s dominated with one large computer console across the far wall, and a few chairs. The rest of the room is fairly spartan. Its purpose is clearly the computer, and nothing else.  
  
“I guess this is what we’re looking for?” Keith asks, glancing at the console, then at the mouse on his shoulder. Chuchule closes its eyes and seems to concentrate for a moment, and Keith has a feeling it’s sending a memory of the room towards Allura, wherever she is in the facility. After a moment the mouse’s eyes blink open again, and it nods, gesturing towards the computer.  
  
“Okay. Good. At least we made it to the right place. With…” he checks the countdown on his visor. “…four doboshes to spare. Cutting it close. Do you think you can manage?”  
  
Chuchule scurries around the back of his armor to his other shoulder, and scampers down his left arm towards the console as Keith strides towards it. He adjusts his arm without thinking to accommodate for his little passenger, and realizes with surprise a moment later that it feels much more natural to have the mouse crawling all over him. He’s more aware of Chuchule’s movements, and less worried about accidentally letting the mouse fall off of him, trusting Chuchule to know what it's doing.   
  
Huh. Weird.  
  
He holds out his hand towards the console as he reaches it, and Chuchule leaps off his fingertips to land on the computer’s surface. The mouse crawls back and forth for a moment, surveying the numerous buttons and screens carefully, and then finally jumps forward onto the largest of the buttons. The mouse’s full weight activates it, and a holographic screen that takes up most of the wall blinks into existence.   
  
After a moment the screen fills with lines of data and readouts that Keith can’t make any sense of. But Chuchule seems to understand it, and scurries back and forth, jumping on buttons and pushing switches. Keith has no idea what the mouse is doing, but it _seems_ confident at least. With two doboshes left until go time, the mouse finally skids to a stop on the metal surface of the console, and holds up a paw.  
  
“Good?” Keith guesses, unsure exactly what this means.  
  
Chuchule nods, and then mimes a ‘stop’ motion, holding out both paws.  
  
“Stop…wait?” Keith guesses again. Chuchule nods again. “Oh, okay—you’re all set up, and now we just have to wait. For the others to be in position, I’m guessing?” Chuchule nods again. “Okay. You do what you have to do, and I’ll guard. Hopefully nobody will show up, but…”   
  
He shrugs. Chuchule squeaks in agreement.  
  
Keith turns and faces the door, summoning his bayard again, just in case. There’s no movement on the outside, nothing he can hear, but he’d rather have a weapon ready if trouble does come. He keeps an eye on the countdown in the corner of his visor too, and watches with apprehension until the final ticks disappear, and the countdown flashes zero.  
  
He glances over his shoulder. “Go time.”  
  
But Chuchule shakes its head, and makes the same double-pawed “stop” motion as before.   
  
Keith frowns. “Still not in position?”  
  
Chuchule shakes its head again.  
  
Keith grits his teeth, but nods. “Okay. Well. Give me a sign when we’re ready to get out of here.”   
  
The mouse nods, looking solemn. It’s sitting upright on the console, ears high, whiskers twitching in irritation. It’s clearly not happy with the hold up, either.  
  
A full dobosh passes, then two. At the five dobosh mark, Keith scowls as he glances back over his shoulder at Chuchule again, starting to feel antsy. They’re sitting ducks in here, and they won’t go unnoticed forever. _Somebody’s_ going to try and get into this room at some point, be it another sentry or an officer or even the druid, and he doesn’t want to be trapped in a corner when it happens. “ _Anything?_ What’s the hold up?”  
  
Chuchule’s ears flatten a little, but it gestures with a paw to a point in the air just at its shoulder height when standing upright, and points dramatically.   
  
“Low?” Keith guesses, unsure. Chuchule shakes its head, frustrated, and gestures at itself, before pointing back to the space in the air. “You? No…mouse? A smaller mouse…oh! The blue mouse?” An energetic nod, and an equally energetic gesture to himself. “The blue mouse and…me? No, and Lance.” Chuchule nods.  
  
Keith frowns. “Did they do something wrong? They can’t have blown our cover, we’d know. Are they lost?” Chuchule shakes its head, scurries sideways, and points repeatedly at the door, making a shooing motion.   
  
Keith glances at the door, and then back to Chuchule incredulously. “What…they’re not even _there_ yet? Damn it, Lance, we had a time limit…”  
  
Chuchule squeaks and shakes its head, though, and gestures more insistently at the keypad. When Keith gives the mouse a confused look, it gestures again, and crosses its paws in front of itself in an ‘X’ motion. “Key…no key…wait. They can’t get _in?_ Is that what you’re saying?” Chuchule nods, jumping up and down a few times in place.  
  
Keith purses his lips for a moment, and finally sighs. “I guess I get that,” he mutters under his breath after a moment. Lance is in the same boat as him for this mission, and doesn’t even have the extra benefit of at least one additional ability.  
  
 _(No. No additional abilities, he tells himself. He never touched that keypad. Nothing was proven. His instincts are wrong. He’s_ wrong. _There’s nothing different and nothing to accept)._   
  
“They better get in soon,” Keith mutters instead, working his fingers around the bayard hilt again. “I’m not sure how much longer we can wait here.” Chuchule squeaks in agreement.  
  
Ten doboshes past go time, they’re still there, and Keith is clenching his jaw in frustration. Surely it can’t be _that_ hard to get into the room? He’d managed it just fine with Chuchule, and Lance has his own mouse. None of them are going to be able to wait forever. But then Chuchule’s ears flick up suddenly, and he lets out a soft squeak, jumping up and down in place.  
“They’re in?” Keith asks, looking relieved. Chuchule nods. “Good. How long will it take—“  
  
Keith freezes in mid-sentence, going silent, and looking over his shoulder with a sudden feeling of dread. And a moment later he hears it again—the unmistakable sound of conversation as the speakers stop right outside their door.   
  
“Hurry!” Keith hisses under his breath to the mouse. Even as he speaks, he slashes his bayard through the control panel on the door. It’s louder than he’d like, but it has the intended result: the door seals fast, at least for the moment. He’s not sure how long it will hold, though—and now they’re trapped. But if it buys them enough time to get this prison unlocked, Keith will consider the inevitable fight out worth it.   
  
“What in…my access code’s not working. Try yours?”  
  
“No, nothing. Huh. That’s not right…”  
  
“Should we go get the North Druid?”  
  
“Ugh, no. Smug, superior ass…I’ve got emergency codes, give me a tick.”   
  
There’s a scuffling noise on the far side, and a muffled sounding beeping. Keith grits his teeth, and glances over his shoulder at Chuchule. The mouse is scuttling back and forth near the buttons on the console, watching the door with narrowed eyes and bristling fur. It is notably not pressing any buttons, so Keith can only assume they’re still setting up on Lance’s end. “You better let them know now would be a _great_ time for this simultaneous key switch thing to go down!”   
  
The mouse squeaks indignantly in response. Keith’s not entirely sure, but he almost swears the noise has some element of a sarcastic _no, you think?_   
  
Keith gives the mouse a dirty look.  
  
The door holds for maybe a single dobosh, and Keith can hear muffled cursing on the other side. There’s no doubt they’ll be getting through soon, and Keith takes a position just beside the door, the best to ambush the two from the moment it slides open. From his new position he’s got a great view of Chuchule’s ears suddenly flicking up, and the mouse stops pacing, instead leaping for the nearest button on the console.  
  
Then the door _clicks_ softly, and slides open.   
  
Keith lunges in from the side the moment the two Galra officers step through the door, bodily checking them in the side with his shield. Galra as a rule tend to be much taller and more sturdily built than humans, but they’re just as susceptible as anyone when caught by surprise, and they both stumble sideways against the far wall. One crashes to the ground as he loses his balance, sprawling out on the floor. The second, dressed in different colored armor with an officer’s insignia, recovers faster, and braces himself against the wall as he raises his wrist towards his mouth.   
  
Keith isn’t terribly familiar with Galra technology as a whole—Hunk and Pidge know far more about it—but he recognizes a communicator when he sees it. If that officer gets the word out, their mission is compromised for sure. So he lunges again, stabbing with the bayard now in his left hand towards the Galra’s communicator and arm. The blade rams clean through the armor and technology on the officer’s wrist, and based on his screech of pain, a good deal of his flesh as well.   
  
The wrist mounted communicator sparks, now completely useless, and the Galra clutches at his arm with his good hand as Keith tears his bayard free. The officer glares at him, and snarls wordlessly, leaping forward as he reaches with bloodied claws for Keith’s throat.   
  
But Keith can feel the energy of the fight now that it’s begun, feel the heat of battle running hot through his veins, and he’s ready for the assault. He feels hyper aware of his surroundings and his options as the officer lunges at him. He knows he doesn’t have much room to move and dodge, not if he’s keeping the officer’s attention. So he raises his right arm and takes the brunt of the blow against the shield mounted to his wrist.   
  
The officer’s claws scratch at the shield, sending sparks fluttering through the air, but they can’t penetrate the Altean technology. But the officer is much larger and heavier, and Keith no longer has the advantage of surprise. The Galra shoves forward, using brute strength and force, and Keith finds himself being driven backwards under the onslaught. His feels his jetpack clack against the wall. There’s nowhere else for him to go, and still the Galra keeps shoving, and Keith can feel the pressure now as his shield-arm is pressed between the enemy and his own curiass.  
  
 _Can’t win a battle of strength,_ Keith tells himself sharply. _Use_ your _strengths!_  
  
He swings his bayard out wide towards the Galra from the side—not a true strike, just a distraction. Sure enough, the officer predictably turns to try and counter the blow with his armor, and in doing so lets up on the pressure of his attack. Keith immediately drops to free himself, and kicks out at the closest of the officer’s legs. There’s a sharp _snap_ as something in the knee gives, and the officer howls as he topples over. Keith leaps to his feet, and kicks out again at the officer’s head before he can recover. The Galra grunts once and goes still, unconscious.   
  
He turns and finds the second Galra lunging at him from the floor, wicked looking sword at the ready.   
  
Keith curses, and tries to bring his shield around in time, but it’s no use. The Galra is attacking from his left side and the shield is mounted on his right. He tries to raise his bayard to parry, but there’s no time, and he braces for the inevitable strike—  
  
—and the Galra officer screeches in surprise as something small and pink leaps directly at his face. The soldier stumbles, sword strike going wide as his aim is thrown off, and the blade glances uselessly off of Keith’s armor. Blinded by Chuchule, the soldier snarls and claws at his own face. But the mouse skitters aside at the last second and leaps out into the air, and the Galra’s claws gouge long streaks in his own face. He swears as he tries to regain his focus.  
  
It’s all the opening Keith needs. The moment Chuchule is free, he leaps forward, taking advantage of the soldier’s confusion. The Galra strikes out wildly with his sword to try and drive Keith back. But Keith smacks it aside easily with his own bayard, with enough force to send the sword flashing through the air into a corner of the room. The Galra brings his arm up to try and punch next, but Keith blocks it easily with his shield, shoving sideways to send his opponent spinning off balance. The moment the Galra topples to the side Keith slices out with his bayard again. He twists it at the last moment, catching the Galra hard in the side of the head with the flat of the blade. The soldier grunts and collapses, finally down for the count.   
  
Keith pants hard as he stares down at the two fallen Galra, shield and sword still in hand. After a moment his eyes widen and he glances around anxiously for Chuchule. In the rush of battle he hadn’t seen where the mouse had gone after its intervention. But there’d been so much movement…what if it’d been injured by the disarmed sword, or the soldier had collapsed on it?  
  
But he lets out a sigh of relief when he spots the mouse clambering onto one of the chair backs a few paces away. “What was _that?_ ” he asks, unable to completely keep the anger out of his voice. “You could’ve gotten killed! What if he managed to actually grab you?”  
  
Chuchule’s ears flatten, and it gestures at the soldier, then the sword in the corner, and finally Keith, before miming a stabbing motion at its own heart. The mouse collapses dramatically over the chair back, and then cracks one eye open to give Keith a pointed look.   
  
“I’d have figured something out,” Keith mutters, a little sullenly. Okay, so Chuchule _had_ saved him from getting a little stabbed, but he’d have been _fine._ He always is. “You shouldn’t be so reckless like that! I’m the one here to do the fighting, not you.”   
  
Chuchule rolls its eyes as it rolls to its feet, apparently unimpressed.   
  
Keith sighs. “Tell me you were able to unlock the prison, at least.” Chuchule’s ears flick up, and it nods, looking pleased with itself. It gestures at the console, where a green light glows faintly now where it hadn’t before. Keith sighs again, this time in relief. “At least that’s taken care of…”  
  
There’s an unmistakable sound of clanking down the halls, faint but growing ever closer, and Keith has no doubt there’s sentries coming to investigate now. Although he and Chuchule had managed to get the switch activated, they’d made a lot of noise with that fight; there’s no way it went completely undetected. And with the prison unlocked, the Galra are almost _sure_ to notice they have intruders.   
  
And as if in answer to his thoughts, a loud blaring noise starts screeching throughout the entire building, and Keith can hear shouting in the distance.   
  
Yeah. They’re _definitely_ caught, now.   
  
“I think that’s our cue to run,” Keith says, “And I think we’re done with stealth.” Chuchule nods in agreement.   
  
Keith sweeps out an arm quickly towards the chair back even as he starts turning for the door, confident now that the mouse will stay with him. True to form, Chuchule leaps into his palm and scurries up his arm to the safety of his armored collar again even as Keith starts running, and settles in against his neck as he turns the corner of the first hall.   
  
The first goal’s been reached. They’ve successfully unlocked the prison, and even now Shiro and Allura should be getting those kidnapped princes and princesses out and protecting them until the Dassian backup can arrive.   
  
Now they just have to achieve the second half of the mission: getting out of here alive.


	4. Chapter 4

Keith and Chuchule make it about one and a half hallways before they meet their first resistance: three sentries that immediately level their guns at them and start firing. Keith throws up his energy shield immediately, and lunges forward into a charge to close the distance as fast as possible, kicking on the jetpack to increase his speed. Even as he starts to wind back for a strike with his bayard, he hears Chuchule’s indignant screeching, and feels the panicked scrambling at his neck as the mouse tries to hold on.  
  
Oops.  
  
“Sorry!” He yells out loud, to the mouse more than the sentries. He’s already slicing out with his sword as quickly as he can to take down one of the sentries, cleanly severing its head from its neck, and uses the momentum of the strike to spin into the next attack. Chuchule shrieks in his ear again at the fast spin. Seconds later, Keith feels a sharp pain in his neck, as the mouse undoubtedly sinks its teeth into his skin in an attempt to hold on for dear life. He winces, but for once doesn’t blame the mouse.  
  
The second sentry goes down, and Keith ducks a shot from the final one, raising his shield defensively again. Then he charges once more, kicking off the wall at the last minute and using his jetpack to close the distance again. His bayard rams into the final sentry’s chest, and it collapses on the other two.   
  
He feels a pinch at his neck, and Chuchule chatters indignantly in his ear. “Sorry,” Keith repeats with a grimace. It’s not like he’d been _trying_ to dislodge the mouse. “I’m not used to fighting with a passenger. I’ll try to be more careful.”  
  
He swears Chuchule mutters, but after a moment he feels tiny little paws patting his neck around wherever it was the mouse had bitten him, as if apologizing. Well, Keith’s had worse; he’ll be fine from that.   
  
He takes off down the hall again, but for once Keith’s actually hoping they don’t come across more enemies. Before he’d wanted nothing so much as to beat up as many of these Galra bastards as he could for kidnapping children and enslaving an entire race. He’d understood the need for stealth, but really would have preferred the direct approach. Now he wishes he could go back to stealth, because…how is he supposed to fight while carrying a mouse? He _has_ to get up close and personal to attack; he doesn’t have any ranged fighting abilities. That means his fighting style has always been quick and instinctual, darting and diving as needed—but he’s not so sure he can protect Chuchule that way. In fact, based on the way that skirmish just went, he’s more likely to get the mouse seriously injured with his personal fighting style.  
  
He’s so lost in the struggle to find a solution he doesn’t hear the sentries in time, and nearly runs around the corner straight into a new pair. It’s Chuchule’s warning squeak that saves him, and he barely ducks out of the way of a pair of blaster shots with a yelp.  
  
No avoiding these guys; he _has_ to fight. He raises his shield to deflect more blasts and tries to move forward, but more carefully this time, not using the jetpack for extra kick. The shield takes more hits than he’s used to, jarring his arm painfully. He winces as a glancing blow strikes him, when he adjusts the shield to cover the right side that Chuchule is on. When he reaches the first enemy his sword strike is less wild and forceful, and much more textbook levels of precise. He doesn’t expose his full body in an attempt to get in fast and strike faster; instead he keeps it turned and his sword forward, and stabs the sentry through the torso with one clean strike.   
  
It’s accurate, it’s less reckless, it’s targeted and still has some measure of defense—exactly the sort of maneuver Shiro might have used instead. It’s the correct move for sure to use when Keith is protecting something or someone else. But it doesn’t feel quite right yet. It’s still too slow, too unpracticed. He’s not used to _not_ taking gambles for the sake of the fight, or for someone else. He’s never had to restrain himself before, or act as an unmoving shield. That’s more Hunk’s thing—Keith’s used to _movement_ , to _action_. It feels strange to fight like this.  
  
Still, for the time being, it works. The sentry drops—just in time for the second to aim its blaster at Keith.  
  
Keith curses internally. His immediate instinct is to twist, gun the jetpack, ricochet off the wall, and use the force to bring the sentry down before it can hit him. But he hesitates, because he _can’t_ do that, not with Chuchule, not when it will almost certainly get the mouse killed—  
  
For the first time ever in a fight, Keith freezes, his instinct and lone wolf fighting style warring with the importance of reining it in and looking out for others besides himself.   
  
The sentry starts to pull the trigger.  
  
Chuchule makes a sound that doesn’t sound like anything Keith’s heard before. He’s not sure if it’s a growl or a really mean squeak or something else entirely, but it doesn’t sound friendly. The mouse moves, leaping out from Keith’s collar and slamming down on the sentry’s blaster. Chuchule has just enough weight to adjust the tip of the firearm, and the beam smashes into the floor, narrowly missing Keith’s foot.  
  
The sentry releases the blaster with one hand to make a grab for Chuchule. The mouse leaps again and sinks its teeth into the sentry’s finger. It doesn’t appear to hurt the sentry at all—it’s only a robot—but it does appear to form enough of a distraction that the sentry refocuses its attention on the mouse. It raises its hand as though intending to slam it, and the mouse attached, into the nearest wall.  
  
That’s enough for Keith. He shakes his head, cursing himself for freezing. Suddenly both his instinct and his need to protect the mouse are back in alignment, and with a snarl he launches forward as fast as he can and slams his bayard into the sentry’s chest. It sparks and collapses. Chuchule leaps off the back of its hand last minute into Keith’s hastily extended open palm.   
  
“Uh, thanks,” Keith says, staring at the mouse in his hand. Chuchule squeaks and offers a tiny salute with its paw.   
  
“But don’t do that again,” Keith adds with a scowl, as he starts running again, lifting his hand to his collar for Chuchule. “I’ve got this covered. Don’t be so reckless.” Watching the mouse in clear danger had practically given him a heart attack. He doesn’t want to see that happen again—especially if he’s unlucky enough to _not_ be in a position where he can do anything about it the next time.  
  
He swears he hears the mouse grumble under its breath. But Chuchule crawls back into the safety of his collar all the same.  
  
Keith runs again. He keeps an eye out for enemies, but decides to avoid fights when he can, darting past hallways with extra sentries, or hiding in rooms to disappear long enough for them to dart past. He definitely can’t afford to be reckless right now, and he can’t let Chuchule put itself in danger either trying to help.   
  
It’s awkward, and sometimes he has to fight anyway. But he and Chuchule slowly start to figure out how to roughly work together for the sake of living through the fights. The moment the sentries come into focus, the mouse burrows itself as far down as it can into his collar, and digs its little paws deep into the black under-armor material. With Chuchule holding on tightly, Keith is afforded a little more leniency in combat. He still refrains from using the jetpack or deliberately risking injury for the sake of a good strike. But it does let him dart and dodge more accurately, and with the mouse dug in near his neck he knows Chuchule has as much protection as possible. Fighting is still awkward, and it still feels a little strange to have to be so hyperaware of the consequences of his actions and movements when previously Keith has only ever relied on his instinct for his victory. But he’s starting to get better at it. Slowly.  
  
They make their way through the base, but while Keith never stops moving, he’s starting to feel turned around. All the hallways look the same, and he’s lost any sense of understanding of where he is, when he’s spent half the time dodging out of sight or avoiding large groups of enemies. When they hit the fork in the hallway just ahead, Keith pants, “No idea where we are. You? Which way?”  
  
Chuchule squeaks, and scurries around from the right side of his neck to the left, tapping it repeatedly with a paw. Keith doesn’t even slow down running, and takes the left fork, pushing for more speed. The faster they get back to the others, the faster they can get the Lions and finish the job.  
  
The left corridor seems to lead into some kind of warehouse. There’s stacks of crates and equipment everywhere on the ground floor. Keith appears on the upper floor looking down at it all, on a metal grating that forms a catwalk of some sort around the exterior. There’s a set of thin metal stairs off to the left, several other doors on the ground floor, and a massive two-story door just ahead that appears big enough to let in machinery dropping off or picking up supplies.  
  
Keith doesn’t know what this place is for, and he doesn’t care. He can just barely see sunlight edging through the cracks at the bottom of the large bay door, and knows that’s his way out. He grabs the railing of the catwalk just ahead, and starts to vault over it.  
  
Chuchule screams in his ear, sounding suddenly panicked as he scratches violently at Keith’s neck. At the exact same moment, Keith feels that same sense of _wrongness_ from earlier, of something inexplicably unnatural and not right with the world, of something twisted and warped outside of its natural alignment.  
  
The feeling comes from his right. Keith instinctively snaps up his energy shield—and the blast of lightning hits him dead on.   
  
He screams as it hits, and distantly he hears a loud squealing in his ear. The shield absorbs most of the damage, but then flickers and dies partway through the attack, overwhelmed with the sheer power of that magical lightning. The purple bolts hit him hard, and even mitigated by the shield, they _hurt._ His whole body feels like it’s set aflame, and his nerves burn with agony. For a moment his mind whites out, and even thought is beyond him.  
  
He comes back to awareness when he hits the ground two stories down. He smashes down hard on his back, and hears a sharp _crack_ as one of the jetpack boosters shatters. The momentum from the lightning strike and the fall sends him skidding, and he groans when he finally slides to a stop on his side on hard metal flooring. His vision swims, oddly gray around the edges, with cracks running through it. It takes him a moment to realize the visor of his helmet is actually cracking, and his visuals are distorted.   
  
He groans, and tries to rise to his feet. His instincts are still screaming that there’s _danger_ and he needs to fight or flee, but coordinating to get up his hard; he hurts _everywhere_. He slumps the first time, arms giving out on him for a moment. And it’s only when his abrupt movement isn’t met with an indignant squeak that he realizes Chuchule isn’t hiding in his collar anymore.  
  
That sets off a pang of alarm in Keith, and a new burst of adrenaline that gives him the strength to get to his feet. He glances around in a panic, and—  
  
 _There!_  
  
It’s hard to spot Chuchule in the shadow of one of the crates, but he’s maybe five feet away from Keith, sprawled on the floor. For a moment Keith is relieved, but when Chuchule doesn’t move that relief changes to fear. What if Chuchule had been hit? _Keith_ barely handled a partial blow well, and he’s significantly larger than Chuchule and _armored_. Even an Altean mouse can’t handle getting hit with that much raw power…can it?  
  
A crackle of energy gains Keith’s attention. He turns in time to see the druid from earlier burst out of a cloud of smoke, arm extended with a sphere of crackling purple energy cupped in their hand.   
  
_“Shit!”_ Keith curses, as the druid shoves their hand forward, and a new arc of lightning blasts out at him. He throws himself forward, and feels the heat of the attack—and, more nauseating still, the warped sense of _wrongness_ —pass by behind him. He dives behind a stack of crates, but they don’t act as a shield for very long. The druid doesn’t even bother to follow him—the just shoot clean _through_ the boxes, shattering metal and sending splinters and burning supplies everywhere.   
  
Keith yells in alarm and dives away from the stack, wincing when he’s pelted with shrapnel and debris. Thankfully the contents hadn’t been explosive, but he’s not sure how long _that_ will last.   
  
_You can’t win this fight_ , Keith warns himself, as he darts out of the way of another lightning blast. _You couldn’t win it last time and nothing’s changed since. Run!_   
  
He skids around another stack of crates, and when the druid predictably blasts it to chase him out, uses the cover of the debris and smoke to head for Chuchule. The mouse has still not moved at all, and Keith is very scared now that he may have gotten the little creature killed. He should have been paying better attention. The base was on high alert; of _course_ the druid was going to show.   
  
But he doesn’t have time to berate himself now. Now, he just needs to escape, so he can help Chuchule if at all possible. He dodges another lightning strike, and turns the dodge into a safety roll. It takes him right near the prone Chuchule, and as he turns his roll into rising momentum he reaches out and scoops the little mouse up in one palm.   
  
He swears he’s not imagining it when he feels the faintest little flick of an ear against his thumb. The faintest pang of relief flows through him. Maybe he’s not too late after all. He cups the mouse protectively close to his chest with both hands—no point in his bayard, he can’t fight this thing—and bolts for the bay door.   
  
He’s almost sure they’ll make it. The druid keeps attacking from behind, but Keith never stops moving, and keeps ducking and diving in between the crates and storage containers for any sort of cover he can find. The door is almost there, almost within reach.  
  
Then the druid just _appears_ in front of him in a burst of acrid black smoke, blocking the exit, and raises their hand.  
  
Keith scrambles to skid to a stop and change direction, but he barely turns sideways before the druid fires another lightning blast. Keith desperately tries to get his shield up again, but it flickers and dies immediately, destroyed from the initial blast.   
  
“No!” he manages to yell, before the strike hits.  
  
If he’d thought first time was agony, this is _infinitely_ worse. Every part of him feels like it’s on fire, like his bones are an inferno burning him from the inside out. His vision flickers white and red. There’s a stabbing feeling in the right side of his head and he can’t quite figure out what it means. His skin feels like it’s boiling. His armor feels restrictive, and he’s pretty sure some of it has melted to his under-armor—or that the under-armor has melted to his skin. His mind seems to blank, and for a moment he can’t focus on anything at all other than _suffering_. And distantly, under his own screaming, sounding muffled and underwater but _there,_ he can hear a tiny little squealing noise, and feel something twitching in his cupped hands.  
  
But his instinct and muscle memory are still with him. Even as the blast hits, even as it sends him flying backward, he tries to twist enough that he doesn’t come crashing down on Chuchule. The mouse is already badly injured—Keith crushing it with his own weight won’t help matters any.   
  
It works—sort of. He slams down painfully on his side, with enough force that his head cracks against the metal flooring, and he bounces and twists bonelessly from the impact. Somehow his helmet dislodges from the momentum, and pieces of the visor go scattering across the floor as it tumbles away. Keith loses his grip on the mouse in his hands, and Chuchule goes flying away from him, even as Keith hits the ground a second time and rolls painfully. His head cracks against the metal floor again, this time without the protection of a helmet. He cries out in pain, and his throat feels hoarse and raw, and the noise sounds strangely muffled.  
  
Then it’s over.  
  
Keith blinks his eyes open blearily. There’s red in his vision, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s bleeding, and it’s getting in his eyes. He can hear his own breathing, but it sounds muffled and distorted; something’s wrong with his ear, which feels clogged. His whole body feels numb and far too heavy, like gravity’s increased on him. His mind wanders, and can’t seem to focus. His whole body hurts, and every single cell in him seems to remember that feeling of being on fire.   
  
At the edge of his vision, maybe four feet away from him, Keith sees the slumped form of Chuchule. The mouse isn’t moving again; it’s curled on its side, eyes closed. There are tiny bluish trickles of what Keith thinks might be blood dribbling out of its ears. He’s not sure what that means, but he knows it’s enough to spur him into action.  
  
He groans, but forces himself to try and rise. His body refuses at first, heavy and resisting, and it feels like his bones are made of pure iron now. His arms shake beneath him and refuse to entirely take his weight, and he fails to push himself upright twice in a row. He can’t even really feel his fingers or toes, and coordinating is more difficult than it should be. But he tries, stubborn and refusing to give up, and on the third try he manages to get to his hands and knees.  
  
Then he smells the sharp, acrid tang of smoke, and feels the first twist of nausea in his stomach, and that unmistakable feeling of unnatural _wrongness_ in the world—of something that’s pulled the natural order so much out of alignment it’s an insult to living itself. And he knows, without even seeing it, that the druid has arrived.   
  
Keith glances sideways and sees the hem of the druid’s robes out of the corner of his eye. They are standing close by, still between him and the door—as if he could make a run for it at that moment. Slowly, their masked face seems to glance at Keith, then at the little Altean mouse. They seem to consider for a moment, and then calmly raise a hand, gathering more of that unnatural purple energy into their palm.   
  
Keith clenches his jaw, fighting the feeling of nausea as it gets stronger, this close. He’s not sure exactly how he knows, but he knows the druid is gathering more energy than before, charging their attack to be even more powerful than the last blast. And it’s meant for the both of them.  
  
 _No_ , Keith snarls to himself. _No way….I won’t let it happen. I can’t._   
  
But he can’t fight. He barely has the strength to move, let alone summon his bayard and fight a druid. His last fight with a druid would have ended in his death without a rescue. And it’s going to end with at least one death now, unless—  
  
The druid’s attack sparks warningly as the power coalesces. Keith stops thinking, and instead moves on instinct. But instead of attacking, he _protects_ instead. He gathers the last of his strength and hurls himself forward the remaining few feet to curl over the prone Chuchule.   
  
He coils himself as tightly as he can over the little mouse, shielding his own vitals as well, but all he can think of is how tiny and utterly _fragile_ Chuchule is. How until now Keith’s never been responsible for anything in his life besides himself, and for the first time he really understands what that _means_ , to have someone else _need_ him in such a way. How that responsibility is strangely frightening, more so than anything he’s ever fought, and yet somehow now it still seems _worth_ it; it’s not something he wants to back away from. How completely helpless that mouse is against something as deadly as a druid. How much the mouse relies on him for protection, even when it doesn’t seem to think it needs Keith’s help. And he’s failed to protect that little creature relying on him now, but he sure as hell is _not_ giving up yet.   
  
Chuchule trusts Keith to protect him. Keith can’t break that now—and _that_ , he realizes, is the trade off. Unwavering trust in exchange for independence. In that moment, for the first time, he understands what it means to be responsible for another. And in that moment, for the first time, he _wants_ to see it through.  
  
And Keith might be able to survive another druid’s blast, but Chuchule definitely _won’t._  
  
So he curls as defensively as he can over the prone mouse, and he waits. He can’t do anything else. He’s out of options. This is the only move he can take, but he’ll do it. He refuses to give in.  
  
He clenches his jaw for the inevitable burst of pain, but it doesn’t come. Instead, muffled and distant in his ears but undeniably familiar, comes the rapid-fire sound of multiple laser blasts coming from one very large laser cannon.   
  
Keith’s eyes snap open in surprise, and he raises his head. Through a red haze he sees Hunk over by one of the ground-floor doors of the warehouse, bayard out and firing wildly over Keith’s shoulder. The big yellow mouse is sitting on his shoulder, jumping up and down in an unexpected show of ferocity as he attacks. The druid’s lightning blast is thrown off and slams into one of the nearest crates, which shatters on impact; Keith curls protectively over Chuchule again to shield him from the debris.   
  
The druid vanishes in another cloud of black smoke, and reappears some ten feet distant. Hunk is not deterred, and swings the cannon around without even halting his fire, churning up more of the crates as he forces the druid back. The druid vanishes again, and reappears directly behind Hunk.  
  
Keith’s eyes widen. “Look out!”  
  
Hunk’s eyes also go wide as he spins, with the yellow mouse squeaking in alarm and trying to crawl over his armor’s collar against his neck. The druid is _right_ there, and raises their hand to attack, power already gathering in their claws—  
  
A blue flash smashes into the druid’s shoulder. For the first time they make a noise, a loud hiss of pain, and the power gathering in their hand sputters out and dies. They vanish in a puff of smoke and reappear in the center of the room, no longer quite so untouchable looking with their frayed robes.  
  
Keith glances up in surprise to find the source of the flash. Lance is up on the catwalk, bayard already trained on the druid again, eyes narrowed in determination. The tiny blue mouse is sitting on his shoulder, chattering angrily as it scratches at the air with its little paws.   
  
“Three on one’s better odds for these guys, right?” Lance asks, almost conversationally.   
  
Keith swallows, and rasps, “Better.” He nearly winces at how awful his voice sounds from all the screaming, and how muffled it is in his bad ear. “Where did you guys come from?”  
  
“Shiro’s orders said to meet up, remember?” Hunk says. His cannon is also trained on the druid, and he looks nervous, but he doesn’t back down. “Platt heard yelling and explosions and we figured _somebody_ had to be down here getting into trouble.”  
  
“Same with me’n Chulatt,” Lance agrees. “Figures it’s _Keith_ getting into trouble.” The barb is teasing, but the way he glares at the druid is anything but. Neither he nor Hunk are happy with the druid, and they are definitely ready to fight hard to protect their fellow paladin.  
  
Not for the first time, despite all their faults and annoying quirks, Keith is _very_ happy they’re on his side.   
  
While the others keep their guns on the druid, Keith reaches down to scoop the unmoving Chuchule into his hand, cradling the little creature carefully against his curiass. He staggers wearily into a stand from his knees, wincing a little when his whole body seems to throb in pain. But he doesn’t feel quite as heavy as he did before, and can at least manage to get to his feet under his own power. That’s an improvement, at least.   
  
The druid crouches a little, and both hands draw out of their sleeves as they raise them and begin to summon another spell to their fingertips. Keith can feel that swirling unnaturalness gathering around the being in the way it makes his stomach churn and the awful smell it seems to make. There’s nowhere for him to run, but this time he’s not alone; Hunk and Lance are there as backup. He summons his bayard again and raises the blade warningly in front of him. It’s heavy in his hands, and he won’t be able to move as quickly as he’d like, but he’s ready to strike the best he can the moment the druid attacks.  
  
The druid brings their hands together, and—  
  
—and the entire warehouse seems to rumble alarmingly. There’s an earth-shattering noise from outside, and the entire base seems to shake. Keith can feel the reverberations of the earth itself rumbling up through his feet, and hear the clatter of debris on the metal floor as it shivers. The warning blare back in the main building suddenly goes silent, and in exchange, the outside seems to become impossibly loud as the sounds of aircraft and air strikes roar down throughout the complex.   
  
“The Dassians sound _pissed_ ,” Lance says, smug.   
  
And Keith realizes he’s right. Somewhere along the line, while he’s been running from attackers and fighting the druid, Pidge must have come through on her part of the plan and hacked the Galra security enough to finally let the Dassian war machine turn on the Galra. And the Dassians, when not fettered, are truly a terrifying enemy to behold.   
  
It’s a good thing they’re on Keith’s side, too.   
  
The druid vanishes in a black cloud, and reappears up on the catwalk, opposite Lance. Lance and Hunk immediately train their weapons on them, but the druid seems to look around, mask darting frantically back and forth, as the sounds of combat outside get louder. Their hands clench in frustration, but then they vanish again in another burst of smoke.   
  
They don’t reappear.  
  
“Where’d the creepy robe guy go?” Hunk asks, alarmed. He whips the cannon this way and that, searching frantically for the enemy.   
  
The building rumbles again, and part of the ceiling crumbles, smashing down to the ground a few feet from Keith. “Never mind that!” he snaps. “Let’s just get out of here, now!”   
  
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Lance agrees. He vaults over the railing of the catwalk, floating down on his jetpack to touch down next to Keith. “You okay man? You’re barely on your feet—“  
  
“I got this, I’m fine,” Keith snaps, a touch irritably. Actually, he feels awful. He’s sore everywhere, and Lance’s voice still sounds curiously muffled on his right side. But he’s not about to let a few injuries keep him from walking out of here under his own power. His failure to handle the druid well at all on his own is embarrassing enough.  
  
Lance raises his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender. On his shoulder, the little blue Chulatt mimics the move almost perfectly. “Hey, fine, fine, whatever. Let’s just get out of here!”  
  
That, at least, Keith can agree to.  
  
They make for the exit. Lance runs ahead to open the bay doors. Hunk detours to grab Keith’s helmet for him, but then follows behind Keith deliberately, just to make sure he gets out in one piece. Keith finds himself limping a little, and his whole body aches, but he can move well enough to at least avoid being crushed by falling debris and discarded crates of supplies.   
  
Of more concern to him is Chuchule. Even as he moves he re-sheathes his bayard and stares down at the mouse curled up in one palm. He hesitantly brushes his thumb over the little mouse’s head, as gently as he can. Chuchule doesn’t respond, and for a moment Keith is afraid that for all his attempts to protect the little creature, he’d been too late.

  
  
But when he run his thumb over Chuchule’s head again, the little mouse nips it gently, and wearily blinks its eyes open. Keith’s eyes widen, and he raises his hand closer to his face. “You’re okay?”  
  
Chuchule twitches its little whiskers slowly, and blinks at him. The mouse doesn’t try to get up or make any major movements, but after a very slow moment, it nods, and lets out the tiniest squeak.  
  
Keith can barely hear it, but it’s enough for him anyway. “Good,” he says, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice. “I’m glad. Take it easy, you’ve done your part.”   
  
Chuchule nods weakly in agreement, and Keith cups the mouse carefully against his chest again to provide what protection he can.   
  
They make their way outside into the thick of the firefight. The Dassians, a group of strange reptilian-centaur beasts that look sort of draconian, are fighting furiously outside against the Galra entries and soldiers. They’re making progress and are brutally efficient both in ground combat as well as with their ships, and Lance hadn’t been wrong when he said they were _mad_. But they’re also disciplined, and recognize the paladins as their allies. The moment the three of them emerge from the base, a small group of Dassian ground soldiers surge forward to cover them. Another group follows after them to provide backup for the paladins when they regroup and escort the royal hostages free.   
  
They meet up with Shiro, Allura and Pidge easily after that. The Dassians were quick to destroy the tower providing the communications jamming network, and after that the paladin comms are back online, making it easy for them to pinpoint and assist each other. The rescued princes and princesses are scared but cooperative, and between the paladins and the new escort of Dassian soldiers, it’s easy to spirit them away into waiting royal transport to be delivered safely back to the Dassian palace.  
  
Then it’s just a matter of cleanup—and even with his injuries, that isn’t as hard as Keith expects. Most of the major fighting is over by the time the paladins return to the scene of the battle after rescuing the royal family. If hand to hand is required, they have the full backup of not just all the paladins, but the Dassian troops as well, meaning Keith doesn’t find himself needing to be as reckless and alone in his fighting style as usual. And for once, he’s actually grateful for the backup. Chuchule is still with him, no longer in his hands after starting to grow a little restless, now curled up in the safety of his collar once again—but even with that indication of recovery, Keith still doesn’t want to risk him.  
  
The final blow comes when the Galra summon reinforcements from their warship in orbit. The Dassians take care of many of the fighters, but Voltron is required for the warship itself, and the team is all too ready to return to their Lions to make the final strike. Voltron is formed, and the blazing sword is summoned. Keith can’t help but grin when Chuchule squeaks weakly but eagerly in his ear, as he and Red plunge the Blazing Sword deep into the warship and send it cracking in two.   
  
Keith can almost feel Red grinning too. She seems amused at Keith’s _tiny, reckless pilot_. Keith directs a mental scowl in her direction, but she ignores him. Chuchule, at least, doesn’t seem to catch on to the mental conversation, so at least that’s something.  
  
“Good work, team,” Shiro says over the communications. “I don’t think the Galra will be bothering the Dassians any more. Let’s head back, triage and debrief.”   
  
Keith’s had more than a few wins with Voltron since this whole mess has started, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever felt quite so victorious as this one. And judging by Chuchule’s enthusiastic squeaks, the mouse wholeheartedly agrees.

* * *

  
  
“Triage” ends up taking a lot longer for some than others. Thanks to a bad concussion, a sprained ankle, a busted ear drum, several burst blood vessels in his left eye, a throat gone raw from yelling, a number of minor gashes from shrapnel, more bruises than he cares to count, half a dozen serious burns where his armor had melted to his skin, and both nerve _and_ quintessal damage due to being struck not once but _twice_ by druid bolts, Keith spends the better part of a quintent in a cryo-pod recovering. As a result, the debrief gets pushed back until the next day, when everyone is in better condition to actually report on their activities.  
  
The only one injured worse than Keith was Chuchule—comparatively speaking, anyway. The poor mouse spent vargas in a different cryo-pod, and its fellows and Allura had all been deeply upset at the extent of the creature’s wounds. Keith had felt a little guilty about it—he was supposed to be the one protecting the mouse, after all—but Allura had reassured him before he’d even climbed into his own cryo-pod.  
  
“Chuchule’s always been a bit of a red paladin at heart,” she’d said in fond exasperation. “I’m grateful to you for being able to bring them back alive. I suspect they weren’t the easiest to partner with.”  
  
She hadn’t been wrong there—Keith had definitely found himself intensely frustrated at the mouse’s recklessness, and the rash way it had always jumped into battle without thinking. It had been more than a little alarming to have the mouse acting under its own impulses, without heed to Keith’s words or orders, when it was so _small_ and _defenseless._   
  
But even so, Keith is relieved to see Chuchule sitting comfortably with the rest of its kin on Allura’s shoulders, when he finally climbs out of his own cryo-pod a quintent after the battle. For all his reckless tendencies, they’d survived a mission together, and the mouse had been a real fighter throughout all of it. Keith supposes that makes them fellow soldiers, in a way. Or at least, it’s not any weirder than being family with the rest of the paladins after piloting giant mechanical cats that turned into a person.   
  
They all gather in the dining hall for a much needed food break while discussing the mission. The mice scatter from Allura’s shoulders and beg at Hunk’s and Lance’s bowls while everyone trades stories. Lance obligingly holds out his spork for the yellow mouse, while Hunk tears up bits of some kind of space bread to hand out to the other three.   
  
Keith watches absently as he eats his own meal, amused more than annoyed by their antics. He used to find it mildly irritating before when the mice would beg for others’ meals, probably due to all the wild ones that used to steal his own food back in the desert. Now he barely suppresses a grin as Chuchule does a clever little jump, twist and roll to snatch the largest piece of bread from Hunk’s fingers before Plachu can get it. Especially when he recognizes the move as one of his own from the mission, sans one tiny mouse-sized jetpack.    
  
Plachu chitters indignantly, but Chuchule sticks the hunk of bread in its jaws and bolts. It runs, not to Allura as Keith expects, but instead to Keith, ducking in beneath the safety of one of Keith’s arms and hiding just next to the crook of his elbow. Plachu skids to a halt, eyes Keith once, and paces back and forth for a moment. It finally retreats back to Hunk for his own dinner when the yellow paladin calls him.  
  
Keith glances down at the red mouse hiding behind his arm and snorts a little under his breath. Chuchule removes the hunk of bread from its mouth and glances up, and Keith swears the mouse grins cheekily at him.  
  
“Fine,” Keith says, trying to look serious but barely suppressing a laugh, “you can hide here, but you can’t have my dinner.”  
  
Chuchule winks at him, and settles down leaning against his arm to dig into its own meal. Keith rolls his eyes a little, but obligingly swaps his spork to his other hand so he doesn’t disturb the mouse’s seat.  
  
“So I was able to break into the control room in my area by hacking it,” Pidge finishes, as Keith tunes back into the conversation. “We got there first, I think, so then it was just a matter of waiting around for the rest of you slowpokes to get to your stations.” She smirks, and Plachu—now with its own hunk of bread—looks up from its meal to glance around at the other mice smugly.   
  
“Lucky,” Lance grouses, as he reclaims his spork from Platt long enough to swallow a mouthful of his own dinner. “Do you know how hard it was for us to get into our room? There were guards outside of it the whole time! Just talking! They just wouldn’t go away even when we hit go time. And we couldn’t attack them or anything because then it’d draw attention and we’d blow our chance to free those kids.”  
  
The blue mouse, Chulatt, chatters excitedly as it stuffs the rest of its breadcrumbs into its mouth and runs up Lance’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” Lance says absently, “I know, you got us in by distracting the guys with some noises, you did a good job. Credit where it’s due.”  
  
“Fascinating,” Allura says. “Have you learned to understand Chulatt during the mission?”  
  
“What? No,” Lance says. “Or like…I don’t speak mouse or anything. I just kinda…learned how Chulatt acts? Y’know, when you just sorta get how a person is after hanging around them for a bit. Or a space mouse.”   
  
“Hm,” Allura says, still looking intrigued. “That was still an accurate translation. Were the rest of you able to communicate with your partners so easily?”   
  
“Oh, sure,” Hunk says. “Me’n Platt got along just fine.” He holds out a fist to the yellow mouse, and Platt meets it with one tiny curled paw. Hunk grins at the fist bump. “Who needs words, anyway?”  
  
“Plachu and I made a good team,” Pidge agrees. “Obviously, since we beat all the rest of you.” Plachu couldn’t possibly look more smug.  
  
Everyone turns to stare at Keith expectantly. Keith isn’t really sure what to say, although the question is clear. But then he feels a light pressure on his arm as Chuchule crawls up his jacket and settles on his shoulder. The mouse is careful not to pull at Keith’s hair by accident as it scoots close enough to pat him with one paw and catch his attention, before making a few jabbing motions. Keith smirks as he picks up on the pantomime immediately.  
  
“Chuchule’s a warrior,” he says, answering the question hanging in the air. “So am I. We got along fine.”   
  
Chuchule squeaks and puffs out its chest proudly as he poses on Keith’s shoulder. Keith snorts in amusement, and absently reaches up to stroke a finger over the mouse’s fur. Chuchule chitters and nips his finger affectionately.

  
  
Lance snickers. “Keith’s getting soft on us, guys.”  
  
“Chuchule fought a Galra officer and a sentry,” Keith fires back. “He’s better in close combat than you are.”  
  
 _“Hey!”_  
  
“Alright,” Shiro interjects, sounding fond and a little exasperated all in one. Keith obediently falls silent, but he can hear Chuchule chattering in a way that sounds an awful lot like a laugh, and the mouse pats the side of his face in what is very clearly a _nice one!_   
  
He can’t help but smirk, just a little. At least somebody appreciates his comebacks.   
  
“However everyone did it, we did a good job here today,” Shiro continues. “The Dassian princes and princesses have been returned safely to the king and queen, and they’ve pledged their loyalty to the Voltron Alliance. When the time comes, we’ll have their fleets at our back to help take on Zarkon’s. We not only did a good thing today, we secured a powerful ally for the future.” He looks around at them all—human, Altean, and mouse. “Good job, everyone.”   
  
The mice squeak out tiny little cheers, and Lance hollers, “I think that’s a cue to _celebrate!_ Think these guys’ll give us a parade?”   
  
“It’s not about a parade,” Keith grouses, but his words are lost as the others rise to their feet to start organizing a party, riding the enthusiasm. Shiro meets his eyes, and gives an amused little shrug, as if to say, _let’em have their fun._   
  
Still, Keith muses while the others start discussing party options, Shiro’s not wrong…this mission really _was_ a success, in more ways than one. Keith hadn’t really been that on board with it at the start, admittedly, but it had…well, it had turned out okay. He’d learned some things about himself, even if some other things had left more questions than answers. They’d ultimately only been small victories in the face of saving kidnapped children or securing a valuable ally against Zarkon.  
  
But as Chuchule crawls over his collar and curls up gently against his neck for a nap, careful not to pull at his hair, Keith figures even the smallest victories are worth it.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art featured in this chapter was by Eastofthemoon again! Once again, be sure to check out her writes and arts here:  
> http://eastofthemoon.tumblr.com/
> 
> Aaand that's a wrap! Thanks for reading everyone, and enjoy that sweet, sweet Season 3 in just one more day!


End file.
